“No.”

“I’m telling you, Fleet—”

“No.”

“—Second Wind, all three movies—”

“You’re not taking this from me.”

“—They’re literally Star Wars, beat for beat, set in feudal pony Japan.”

“They’re not!” I slap the counter, grinning. “They’re completely original in every way!”

“Is that so?” He returns to me from the kitchen bench with two vanilla milkshakes topped with whipped cream and caramel-smothered popcorn, an eyebrow raised and a haughty smirk playing across his face. “Then tell me if this sounds familiar: roll of text explaining the current state of affairs; the big bad, who we later find out is the parent of our main protagonist, is hunting down plans information regarding their master’s doomsday device; the damsel in distress, who’s also related to the protagonist, sneaks out two envoys to find—”

“Where’s your proof?”

“Oh, you want proof, do you?” He sets down the glasses and whips out his phone, booting it up and swiping through a few menus. “If you recall, I was coming back from a convention in San Diego when I got sucked in through the portal, and if anything but what I had on my person survived the crash, I’d show you. But since nothing did, I implore… you look… at this.” He offers the phone to me.

I snatch it from his grasp and hold it close.

A human encased in black robes and armour poses with some kind of plastic, red-bladed sword — more like a poorly designed baseball bat — in the middle of a street. He stands flanked by other humans, clad in similarly ridiculous-looking costumes, almost a hundred strong, or possibly more.

I narrow my eyes and look up at Philip again. “Is this you?”

He shakes his head. “Kishore Tamboli. My roommate for the con. We’d been talking online for almost three whole years before meeting there for the first time. But that, dear Fleetybee, is beside the point.” He leans over and lays a finger on top of the phone, beaming at me in smug satisfaction. “I defy you to tell me Victoria Vanity isn’t Darth Vader, when she’s armoured up.”

I blink, hesitant. “You’re bluffing.”

“On any other occasion, you might be right, but just look: black armour, kabuto-like helmet, and although a lightsabre isn’t exactly a flaming sword, it also cuts through almost anything.”

“Victoria Vanity isn’t a cyborg.”

“That may be, but she is ruthless.” His eyelids lower to halfway in a sly manner, like a fox toying with a rabbit. “One could say… heartless. Efficient. Not unlike a machine, in fact. I mean, she isn’t above disposing of any incompetent subordinates.”

“She isn’t him,” I affirm, pouting.

“Deny it all you want, Fleet, but sooner or later, you’ll have to face the music: our favourite movies are almost carbon copies of each other. And you know what that means, don’t you?”

“What?” I challenge, folding my forelegs.

“Humans did it first.”

“I don’t believe you,” I state, shaking my head emphatically. “Nuh-uh, no way. Second Wind is ours and ours alone and you’re not stealing it from us like you did with Stockholm syndrome and Swiss cheese.”

“Scotch comes from Scotland.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”

“And that’s a biblical reference.”

“STARS ABOVE, SHUT UP!”

He backs away from the counter, laughing so hard he’s practically begging for a slap, and this time, I’d make sure it hits where it’s supposed to. “Calm down, Fleet,” he implores, still giggling as he stumbles back into place, then slides one of the milkshakes across to me. “Here, have a snickerdoodle. You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

“You don’t eat a milkshake.”

“True.” He nods and bringing his own glass up — a mug that looks more like a jam jar with a handle — and takes a bite from the cream and popcorn, briefly closing his eyes to savour the taste. But then he returns to me with a finger raised, as well as his brows. “However, I could make a dessert out of this, if you’d like. And it’d be, like, no effort at all.”

I roll my eyes and lean forward to sip from the straw, figuring this little treat might be the one good thing I can take away from this visit. Third time’s the charm, and we’re already bickering over our preferences. Might as well call the whole thing off with this new revelation — nopony ruins my childhood and gets away with it, and they certainly don’t win my affection that way either. I don’t dig abusive relationships.

But as soon as the drink hits my tongue and fills my mouth with its aroma, the world goes black and I’m swept away on a sea of milky bliss; this beats the rainbow truffles by a hundred miles at least. Vanilla has never been my favourite flavour, to be honest, but I suppose that’s just because I hadn’t tasted perfection, and this is it. It has to be; I only ever hum contentedly with food whenever I know I’ve found something worth coming back for.

“Good stuff, ain’t it?”

I gently nod, slowly opening my eyes and licking behind my lips for whatever dregs I can find. He may wish for land full of ice-cream and apple pie for an afterlife, but me? I’m thinking of adjusting my outlook to include vanilla rain. “Sisters, Philip,” I breathe absently, “where did you learn to cook?”

“Mum, mainly.” He shrugs. “But for this one in particular, thank Phalanx. Dude’s a magician in the kitchen — knows the right amount of everything. It’s like he has a sixth sense.”

I huff a soft laugh, taking another sip, and I hum contentedly once more. “That’s a unicorn for you,” I say with a satiated sigh. “With enough training, they’re the best and just about everything. No joke, they can control the weather, raise the sun and moon, fly, farm, navigate… Basically every single thing us pegasi or the earth ponies are naturally talented at, a unicorn could do just as well, if not better.”

“Oh?” He quirks an eyebrow and has himself another mouthful of cream and popcorn. “Got a little tribal dysphoria going on, do we?”

“Pfft. Yeah, no way, Jose.” I flex my wings. “These babies aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and no amount of magic lasers are changing my mind.”

“But lasers are awesome!”

“I didn’t say they aren’t, but if I had to choose between parlour tricks and loop-de-loops, I know which one I’d pick.”

“Not even for a day?”

At that, I pause, but then shake my head and smile. “Not even for a day.”

His brows rise. “Really?”

I nod.

“Because if I had the opportunity, I’d love to be something else for a day.”

“Such as?”

He pauses, then wraps his free arm around his stomach as he frowns in thought, staring off to the wall far behind me, his breathing slow and reflective. “A woman, I guess.”

I blink and sharply draw my head back in surprise. “A female human? Really?”

“Sure.” His sips through the straw and licks his lips, but doesn’t return to me just yet. “Nothing too outlandish — still within my comfort zone, I guess — but I wouldn’t mind being a girl for a day. I doubt it’s much different, but… you never know. Could be fun.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Fun, huh?”

His head angles toward me, his eyelids lower, and the corner of his mouth stretches in an unimpressed kind of way. “Shame on you, Fleet. Here we are having a perfectly innocent conversation about ‘what if’ scenarios, and then you have to stick your head right into the gutter. Not even the decency of a ‘how do you do’, just… ram it on in there.”

“Fine, fine.” I look away and wave my hoof dismissively. “But here you are, asking what tribe I’d be for a day, and when I ask you something similar, you go and gender-bend yourself.”

“Are you implying that I’m confused?”

“I’m implying that you should’ve given a less suspicious, more topic-friendly answer.”

“Like what? Which human tribe I’d prefer to be a part of?”

“More or less, yeah.”

His eyes widen and his mouth hangs open, somehow both bemused and disturbed at the same time. He blinks once, twice, then lets out a stifled laugh, and then shakes his head with a look of bewilderment. “There is so much wrong with what you’re asking that I’m not even sure if I should bother explaining.”

“Well then, fine!” I exclaim with an exasperated shrug. “What pony tribe would you prefer to be a part of?”

“Oh, nuh-uh, I’m not opening that can of worms either.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t just pick a favourite ethnicity, Fleet! That’s how racism starts!”

“Oh, for the love of…!” I roll my head in a circle and lay it with and audible thump on the tabletop, but not hard enough to actually hurt, or damage the glasses I still haven’t taken off. I shut my eyes and groan. “Sometimes, Philip, I wonder why I even try.”

“You try, Fleetybee, because the pain is worth it.” He takes another sip, relishing the flavour for a moment before continuing. “By which I mean you feel the pain is worth it, or so I’ve been led to believe, and not that I mean to say I think I’m actually worth all the hassle I put you through. Honestly, I think it’s a bloody miracle you’ve survived this long.”

“No kidding,” I grumble, then lift my head just enough so I can peer up at him from behind weary brows and over the tops of my frames. “So then, let me rephrase: of the pony tribes, which wouldn’t you mind being for a day?”

He nods again, satisfied, then goes back to looking off into the distance as he contemplates the question.

I snort and take the opportunity to have a proper drink, and almost melt like the caramel itself from just how delicious it is; it’s as if the milk itself was made of pure vanilla concentrate, not unlike a shot of espresso, or tequila, but less affecting in the sense that I won’t be coming down from a high or a hangover. Unless I count this mild state of euphoria. I could definitely get used to this being a treat for us to share.

And here I am, talking as if we’re a couple already. We’ve only had three of these pseudo dates, each watching a favoured movie of mine, then of his, then switching up the order for the next occasion. That’s not enough to actually consider ourselves a legitimate relationship, is it? I mean, shouldn’t it be longer?

You’ve admitted you’d been courting longer than you realised. Perhaps you already are.

But shouldn’t it be more concrete than that?

What were you expecting?

…I honestly don’t know. To be fair, I’d never expected any of this — to have come so far, and not only be comfortable with how this whole thing has developed, but to enjoy it. An inconceivable, quite probably damnable notion that my past self would’ve delighted in watching burn.

But my past self isn’t my current self; my current self is sitting on a stool at the island counter of her crush’s apartment, wearing a plain white singlet, black shorts and a nerdy-looking pair of spectacles, drinking a vanilla milkshake with him and relishing every second of it. The evening sun is getting low, shining its bright, golden light through the sliding door to the balcony, and the air inside is warm and cosy, and it smells like freshly baked bread.

That last part is probably from the Anzac biscuits he’d made — which he distinguishes from cookies by size, strangely enough, and I can kind of get behind; instead of one or the other, combine the dialects and make it work. But as for the food, the biscuits sit half-eaten on a platter to the right. I’m not terribly fond of how tough they are to chomp through, so he said he’ll save them for himself and the guards later, and try to make them softer next time, even though it ‘ruins the charm’.

Sentimental ass.

Look who’s talking, O seeker of the perfect date.

…Okay, fine, we’re both sentimental, so sue us. But I always knew if I were ever to find somepony to be with, I’d want to do things right. Doing things right means taking it slow, especially in unfamiliar territory. I don’t want to look back and wish I could’ve done anything differently, or for it to turn out any other way; forget the movies exemplifying the ideal romance, is it so bad to wish nothing bad ever happened?

It’s not bad, but it’s unrealistic.

Rhetorical question.

To which there was an answer.

I skew my jaw and frown at the glass mug before me. Of course I have to make this difficult for myself. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

“An earth pony.”

My ear twitches and I look up at him. “Sorry?”

He sips his drink and continues staring into the distance, as if he were the captain of a ship contentedly having himself a morning coffee as he watches the sunrise. “If I were to be a pony for a day, I’d be the earthen kind.”

I blink, then realise I’d asked him a question a minute or so ago, and he’s finally answering it. How time flies when you’re in a midlife crisis. “Not a unicorn?”

“Nope.” Another sip, and then he returns to me with a neutral expression. “Magic’s a tricky thing to learn, Fleet. It would take more than a day to master it, or maybe I never would — heck, I’ve seen unicorns who prefer using their hooves over levitation, and very few who can do summoning spells.”

Fair point. “Alright, but what about pegasi?”

He smiles and gestures to me with his mug. “No offence, Fleet, but learning how to walk on four legs would be hard enough; I don’t need an extra two limbs making it even worse. They’d be more trouble than they’re worth, really.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Trouble?”

“The upkeep. You know, preening.”

I roll my eyes amusedly. “Preening isn’t any trouble, Philip. It’s relaxing. And if somepony helps you out, it…”

He waits for me to finish, then cocks raises an eyebrow of his own and waves an encouraging hand. “It… what, Fleet?”

I don’t reply, an ugly epiphany dawning on me — one that makes my wings constrict, my ears flatten, my eyes widen, and my tail pulls in as close as possible while dangling over the edge of the seat. The rotten feeling appears once more, nibbling away at my core like mice in a cupboard full of mouldy cheese. Every time, I promise myself I won’t think back to that accursed night, and especially not to the morning after, but somehow, I always do; pretend as we may, the very simple fact remains that the only reason this started is because…

We missed the good parts.

A mistake was made, and we’ve been doing our best to rectify it.

We can’t wash out the stain, but we can paint over it — create newer, better memories. And perhaps, in time, the knowledge of its existence will fade away into nothingness. And then it would really be as if nothing ever happened.

I suppose now’s a time as good as any to apply another fresh coat.

“Actually, uh…” I begin, then realise how quiet and hoarse I’m sounding and clear my throat, looking up at him. My wings and tail are still tucked in tight and my ears are still folded back. “Do you think you’d, uh… want to help me this time?”

“With preening?”

I hesitate, but manage a small, shy nod before my gaze lowers to the tabletop.

He blinks, glancing past me, no doubt to the feathers piled neatly on the couch’s peninsula. “Didn’t you already do that?”

“Well, yes, but…” I pull my forelegs away from the counter and fold them over my stomach, eyes to the floor, scrunching my muzzle at how difficult I’m letting this be for myself. “It’s what pegasi do. Assisted preening, I mean.” A wing twitches at the thought as I shrug, an anxious shiver running through me to the core. “Maybe we could practice a little.”

He pauses, an air between us that tells me I’ve caught him somewhat off-guard — not entirely surprised in the fullest sense of the word, but definitely stunned. “Practice?” he echoes slowly, vacantly.

“Yeah.” I dare to snatch a brief glimpse of his perplexed expression. Stars, it isn’t easy talking about this, like I’m explaining the odd behaviours of a problematic dog. “I mean… if you’re dating a pegasus, you ought to know what makes us tick, right?”

Another pause, and then he rubs the back of his neck. “I suppose…”

“Not that I mean to say what works for me applies to everypony else,” I quickly add. “We’re all individual. I just think that… it might be nice, you preening me.”

A longer silence. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll guide you.” My wings are starting to itch with apprehension; I don’t like being so forward, especially when this is out of his comfort zone as well as mine. “It’s not that hard, really.”

This silence stretches on even longer. But eventually, he sighs through his nose and answers with… not quite an upbeat tone, but definitely not a disheartened one, “Alright, let’s have a go.”

I slide from the stool and trot from the tiles to the carpet, then scoop up the feathers already on the couch and transfer them to the coffee table, hopping up and lying down in their place. All of this happens in quick succession, and I stare straight ahead, trying to keep my mind from actually processing what I’d just done.

“Well then, aren’t we eager?” Philip remarks, strolling around the counter.

“Yeah,” I say automatically, then stifle and anxious giggle and quickly readjust my glasses. “It’s a special moment, I guess.”

“Is it really?”

And now my mind decides to process everything, and my chest tightens as my gaze drifts off a little way to the left because of it. “It’s… something we should’ve done a long time ago, I think,” I murmur, that rotten sensation taking another tentative nibble.

“Oh.” There’s a break in his stride, which turns into a complete halt, leaning into my vision. “An intimate thing, is it?”

I don’t need to say yes or no; the hesitant pause is all the confirmation he needs. “You don’t normally let others touch your wings unless you know them well, and you don’t preen somepony else unless… well…” My wings shuffle at my sides as I look to him directly, and I’m sure he can see just how uneasy I’m feeling about this. “Yes, it’s intimate. Our wings are our lifeline in the air, so if you let somepony take care of them… you’re trusting them to keep you safe, even when they aren’t there.”

His eyes widen, his brows rise, and he draws his head back slightly. But then his brows crease and he squints as a thought hits him. “Hold on, but… if they don’t do a good job, can’t you just fix it yourself later?”

I sigh. “That’s not the point, Philip. The point is that… it’s a part of growing close with your partner. It’s something you do with the pony you want in your life — like a… a metaphor; you trust them to keep you safe, in every respect. And traditionally… it’s a way of making sure you’re the right ponies for each other, and you’re supposed to do that before…”

“Marriage?” he cautiously proposes after a beat.

“…Your first night together.”

He shuts his mouth and stiffens, eyes widening once more, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze grows apprehensive and, in a certain light, sympathetic; he feels bad and would prefer not to think about it, but he also knows how much it pains me to bring it up. He’s through with ignoring how I feel — a month apart has taught him that — and he wants to do better, both for himself and I.

Us.

Merciful Sisters, we are a thing.

“I’m a pragmatist,” I confess, lowering my attention to the floor. “I’m not huge on tradition for tradition’s sake — that’s more Mum’s thing. But if I were to find somepony to love… I really would’ve liked to have hit all the right notes at just the right times. To… I don’t know, relish it all, I guess. Mutual preening would’ve been a big part of that. And instead, what happened was…”

He slowly nods, and then carefully walks closer, resting on his knees at the foot of the peninsula, focussing on my hoof, which he just as slowly and carefully lays a tender hand over. He holds it in a loose but reaffirming grip, letting out a soft, quiet sigh, and then looks me in the eyes understandingly. “You wanted the perfect romance.”

Again, he doesn’t need to hear a yes or no: he already knows the answer. All I can do is feel guilty that I don’t have the courage to say anything aloud, and my extremities all pull in a touch.

“So did I.” He gently nods, lowering his gaze to the same hoof. “So did I.”

“And we both ended up disappointed.”

“Yep.” He gives the hoof a squeeze and pats it idly. “You always are.”

The response seems innocuous at first, but the longer it I’m allowed to ponder on the words, the more unusual they seem, and eventually, my brows furrow and I cock my head inquisitively.

He takes notice with a fleeting glance and stretches his mouth, puckering his lips as he takes in a deep, calming breath, steeling his nerves for whatever he’s about to say. “You’re my first pony, Fleet,” he murmurs, though I’m sure the rueful tone isn’t directed at the fact, but at something buried a little further beneath the surface, “but you aren’t my first.”

I quirk a wary eyebrow. “Your first…?”

He looks up at me meaningfully.

The realisation stares me in the face like a cockatrice.

“Spike once asked how many crushes I’ve had.” He goes back to the hoof, rubbing a thumb up and down its length, brushing with and against the flow of my fur, so soft that it’s pulling at a cool, fuzzy nerve running up my foreleg and into my shoulder. “Nine, I answered. What I didn’t say was that… of those, three became actual relationships. And they were, at certain points, and to varying degrees… physical.”

I blink, stunned, feeling that cool, fuzzy nerve radiate from my withers to the rest of my body in a tingling wave. This is hardly the conversation I expected to have today, or any other day, frankly. But as much as I don’t feel an overwhelming desire to hear about his history, I know telling him to stop is completely out of the question; if he feels the need to speak his mind, I’ll let him speak. This isn’t the kind of information you share with just anypony.

“There was also another girl, who was… just a fling.” He shrugs listlessly. “It was a fun little romp, I guess… but when I look back on it, now that I have actual standards… I don’t know what I was thinking.

“But that’s beside the point.” He sighs again, looking up to me once more. “I don’t know what experiences you’ve had, Fleet, and I’ll never ask you to tell me, but I will say this: things hardly ever work out the way you want them to. And it doesn’t matter if it’s your fault, or theirs, or both parties’, or something neither side could’ve controlled or ever seen coming — it’s always disappointing in the end. And if what happens does ruin the relationship… then that makes you feel even worse, because all that time and effort… you feel it’s all gone to waste.”

I wait for him to continue, but he seems too lost in thought, which is a little disconcerting considering his eyes are still on me. So, as much as I don’t want to be the one to interrupt, I think some extra encouragement is in order. “Is this the part where you tell me it isn’t?”

He blinks, returning to the real world and to me, but as my question sinks in, his expression shifts into something more crestfallen and he lowers his gaze to my hoof yet again. “I’m not sure I should, Fleet, because… I’m a slow learner myself.”

“How do you mean?”

He sighs for a third time. “I mean… regarding relationships, it’s taken me ten years and three failed attempts to get to where I am now, in terms of knowing how to handle one. And now I’m starting to worry that, if I weren’t stuck here, I’d very easily have left you on the hopes of finding somebody else, because that’s the kind of person I was, once upon a time.”

I quietly gulp, swallowing the pain of an old wound reopened, now rubbed with salt. I can’t fault him for being honest, though, and the what precious few moments I’m given to ponder on it, the more I realise how much more difficult it must’ve been, for him to swallow his pride and see me in Las Pegasus. But I can’t let my opinion of the past cloud my judgement of the present; we’ve moved beyond all that, and we’re different, more resilient ponies because of it.

“I’m sorry if that hurts you, Fleet, but it’s the truth.” He bows and gives my hoof a kiss, then stays there, resting his forehead against my foreleg as he gathers his wits. “I never thought I’d feel this way about someone as different as you. It scared me. In some ways, it still does. But if there’s one thing my life has taught me, it’s that love takes compromise. And I love you, Fleet. I really, really do.”

My teeth clench as I fight back a smile, that coolness in my body becoming warmer by the second, heavier with every beat of my heart.

He plants another kiss on my hoof, lingering there as if he’s afraid I’d leave him the moment he looks up. But when he does, I see only… gratitude and… adoration… eyes brimming with them, threatening to bring out some tears. Whether they’d be his or mine, I can’t tell. “I don’t—”

I shut him up with a kiss on the lips; words can only say so much, and he’s gone on for long enough. I need a release from this sudden wave of ecstasy.

He remains stock-still for a moment, no doubt surprised — something I take no small delight in, knowing I’ve rendered him speechless — but soon relaxes, and then leans into it, nose pressing against mine. He hums a satisfied hum, and I feel a smile creep its way beneath my muzzle as a hand leaves my hoof and threads its fingers through my mane, the palm resting on the point between my jaw and nape.

I grin and open my eyes, pulling back just enough to speak. “You talk too much.”

“Oh, Fleet…” he breathes huskily, as if waking up from an intoxicating dream, “if this is the punishment, what must I do to be rewarded?”

I hum to myself, my expression turning somewhat sly as I pretend to think harder than I need to. Poorly, I might add, and intentionally so. “Well, preening would be a start…”

“Mm-hmm, naturally.”

“Then maybe a back massage…”

“Of course.”

“Scratching behind the ears…”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Under the chin…”

“Practically mandatory.”

“Some cuddling…”

“Wonderful.”

“Belly rubs…”

“Scandalous.”

“Holding hooves…”

“Completely degenerate.”

“And then you could make me another one of those milkshakes.”

He snorts, his grin sliding into a smirk. “That’s a rather short list, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” I press my nose against his. “I suppose there’s room for one more.”

“And what’s that, my dear?”

“This.” I shut my eyes and lean forward, lips to his in another kiss, and then another, and then another, each one punctuated by my legs shuffling further and further along the peninsula, steadily advancing.

He leans further and further back, easing his descent by slipping the hand on my hoof away and propping himself up on the floor. The hand on my neck pulls me closer.

It was already my intent, but I oblige all the same, letting him dictate how fast or slow he wishes to recline, my forehooves running out of cushion to waddle across and falling to the carpet. My barrel comes free, and next my hindlegs, the latter of which made me hobble awkwardly for a step or two, but never once do I stop peppering him with all the kisses I can give, nor does he with me.

Oh, this is magic. My body feels as light as a kite right now, so very far away from anything of any bother, so very easily rapt in something as simple a peck or ten hundred on those wonderful lips. And the hand on my neck, now practically massaging my nape… it threatens to send welcoming shudders right through to my withers. I probably wouldn’t have minded something like this on the first or second movie night, and maybe even down in Redcliff, where we wouldn’t have been interrupted if we’d just found somewhere more private.

It’s just me and him right now. He and I. Us, and this little world we’ve created for ourselves. I’d stay here for hours if I could, long after the sun sets, long after it rises, just… lost in time, savouring how wonderful it is that I’ve found somepony I can unequivocally say I adore. And I’d marvel at myself for sinking so low.

Now that he’s lying on the floor, his free hand searches for something to do, and finds my back vacant, gently pulling me by the loin to lie on top of him. I indulge him, hindlegs lying either side, forehooves resting on the collar of his shirt, still not daring to part our lips but only for the briefest moments to plant another kiss. This is one storm I don’t want to stop.

But then something happens that I can’t help but shrink away at, looking at him in a puzzled, somewhat startled manner. “What the heck was that?”

He frowns, confused. “We’re making out, aren’t we?”

I blink. Yes, that’s what we’re doing, now that I’m forced to put a label on it, but still… “I don’t like tongue,” I state quite blandly. “It feels weird.”

“Oh.” He blinks, his features relaxing. “So… no tongue?”

Telling somepony how you want to be kissed feels incredibly nit-picky of me, as if I’m some kind of assessor — or perhaps a captain — but I know what I enjoy. Feeling something wriggling between my lips and into my mouth isn’t one of them. The only things that ever go In there is food and drink, neither of which move of their own free will. “No tongue.”

He nods, sighing. “I can live with that.”

“Good.” I lower my muzzle to his once more, a small, appreciative smile sneaking its way across my face. “Stick with me and you’ll have to.”

“That vaguely sounds like you’ve made your mind up about me.”

I kiss him again. “Haven’t I?”

“Oh, Fleet…” the hand on my neck glides up through my mane and massages the back of my head, “I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Indeed we do,” I hum, leaning into it, peering down at him with half-closed eyes, almost lost in a blissful stupor. “And what about you? What’re your thoughts on the matter?”

The massage slows.

An ear twitches, and a subtle, uneasy shiver runs down my neck, all the way to my tail; I’ve asked something I might’ve been better off never asking, at least for the time being. We shouldn’t concern ourselves with the future, or the past — this moment is ours and ours alone.

“I think…” he begins, lowering his gaze to my snout as he licks his lips, then returning to me, “that you and I make each other very happy. And I would be remiss if I denied myself that.”

“I want to know, Philip. For certain. Do you or don’t you; yes or—”

“Yes.” He kisses me. “Absolutely.”

I stare at him blankly, my expression as stunned as the tingling feeling inside. “You… do?”

“Yeah.” He kisses me again. “I do.”

And he kisses me again, and again, and again, and again, each reassuring peck sending a warm, fuzzy flutter through me. Had he really, finally, after all this time, finally said that he likes me… in that way? Not only as more than a friend, but as… well, a potential partner? A girlfriend? A special somepony?

How long have I been waiting for this? How many hours, days, weeks, months have passed me by where I wouldn’t have had a problem with it, if only one or the other had made the first move? Why am I so frozen in shock? Why aren’t I just going with the flow and listening to the urges that beg me to melt at his touch?

So, my eyes glide shut once more and I press into him again, humming relievedly as a tension I never knew I had filters through my legs, my hooves, my ears, my wings. The fur on the back of my neck stands on end, and my withers prickle with a tantalising chill.

Oh yes, this is magic indeed.

But then something else interrupts me as he slides the hand on my lion up my singlet to sit between my wings — a sharp and sudden ripple that almost takes my breath away as my eyes snap wide open. I pull back and stare at him. “Philip, stop.”

He blinks once more, confused and perhaps a little annoyed, but I think the latter is just my imagination.

“Where your hand is, between my wings,” I anxiously glance in its direction, but don’t actually move my head. “Careful. I’m… sensitive there.”

“Did you injure yourself?”

“No, no,” I reply, shaking my head, though I’m secretly quite glad he’d ask whether I’m okay, “it’s just a… a quirk pegasi have.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Quirk?”

“A zone.” I gulp. “A very… sensitive zone.”

“Oh.” He pauses, and then his eyes widen in realisation. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” I give a small, stiff, anxious nod. “It, uh… it activates when you’re in a comfy setting, and… I’m pretty comfy right now.”

His lips part, caught on a feeling of awe. He’s not blushing yet, but I’m sure there’s some heat rising in his cheeks. But then his expression morphs into a sly one, though his eyes never leave mine. “So, if I were to do this…”

I whimper as his fingers push into the region like daggers, face scrunching as warmth flows to my cheeks, brows, ears. My whole body tenses up at the feeling, from wings and tail to legs and neck, hooves gently grinding into his chest and the carpet either side of his waist.

But it’s only for a moment — he lets go barely a second later. “Oh, wow…”

“Please…” I beg, peering down at him through eyes narrowed to slits, still riding out the frustratingly stimulating sensation, “please don’t do that. We don’t want to go there just yet. I’m not ready for it.”

He lifts his hands up holds them up before him in mock surrender, a dopey smile still on his face. “Hey, girl, I was just curious.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve had your fun.” I stand up and stretch my wings, working out the tension in them as much as I can and trying to get my tail under control. Then I turn about and hop onto the peninsula again, sitting on my haunches with my back facing him, looking over my shoulder peevishly. “Now let me have mine.”

He sighs elatedly, heaving himself to his knees once more. “Preening, am I?”

“Yeah.” I hold out a wing, consciously suppressing the shivers to the point where they’re nothing more than a barely noticeable quiver — completely natural to the inexperienced, which he most certainly is. “I need you to listen close, Philip. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” I take a moment to calm myself — this is actually happening, after all — then point to each part with a hoof, albeit awkwardly from this angle. “You have your primaries and secondaries — furthest and nearest respectively — and then your coverts on top of them and running along the wing.” I turn my attention to him. “With me so far?”

He candidly nods. “Simple enough.”

I nod in turn, going back to my wing. “There’s also the fluffy down closer to the shoulder, but we don’t normally focus on that — it’s mainly there to keep us warm, anyhow. So, what we’re searching for is anything that’s misaligned or loose. You can usually tell by sight alone, but sometimes you need to use your mouth and hooves — in your case, your fingers. You start at the primaries and work your way in, and if they’re out of alignment, they should just kind of… lock together, like a zipper.”

“So, you’re using me as a living, breathing comb?”

“Something like that, yeah.” I silence another anxious giggle, then shrug. “If I brought my preening kit with me, I’d show you how to use that, but I only break it out for special occasions — Grand Galloping Galas and such. It has some specially designed brushes and an oil and powder you can massage into the feathers, which help them stay zipped up for longer.”

“Feather conditioners…” he muses to himself, sidling closer and laying a hand over the wing, gently raking his fingers through toward himself. “First feather-fingers and now feather conditioners.”

My breath almost hitches; stars, that feels good. “Don’t blame me,” I hum, finding it harder to keep my wing from tensing up again, an enticing tingle shivering through it to my withers. “I’m not the one who discovered what works best for us.”

“I suppose not.” He starts again, every minute motion detected and craved by the part of my brain that can’t help wondering why I’m denying myself so much satisfaction, whatever form that may take. But then his fingers brush up against an itch, and no sooner than I notice and I’m about to say so, he steals my line: “I think you missed a spot.”

My mouth hangs open, so I quickly shut it and nod. “Yeah, that’s a loose one.”

“It won’t go back in?”

“No. Just pluck it, and it’ll grow back eventually.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He pinches the quill and tugs.

I grunt, the whole limb straining and then instantly relaxing.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, but in a good way.” I let out a sigh of relief and flex the wing to its fullest extent. “Sometimes there’s blood, but not usually. Mostly, it just feels wonderful.”

He inspects the primary front and back with an appraising look and a gentle smile. “The most wonderful things happen when you least expect it,” he says in an unmistakably feminine impersonation attempt, pausing his inspection to peer at me smugly from the corner of his eye.

My ears perk up and glare at him from the corner of mine. “Don’t you dare…”

“But madame, are we not on common ground?”

“Don’t you fucking dare…”

He snorts, bringing his hands away from my wings and giving an exaggerated shrug, a shameless grin plastered on his face. “I won’t apologise for liking Broken Love. Really, it’s a decent movie.”

“No, you don’t get to say that,” I retort, shaking my head with an open-mouthed smile. “You have two main characters doomed to die falling in love, sure, but they never actually die. What’s the purpose of having that plot point if nothing ever comes of it?”

“But it’s so tragic!”

“It’s a tragedy without tragedy; a cheap trick to raise the stakes with absolutely zero payoff.”

“Watch that tone of yours, Fleetybee,” he warns, looking at me pointedly, then glances for my withers. “I could very easily go for that pressure point again.”

“Do, and I’ll buck you.”

“Tough love is my kind of love.”

I groan and hang my head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you, my sweet, are simply irresistible.”

I smile. I try my hardest not to, but he always, always manages to bring it out of me, no matter how deep I bury it. And I can’t fault him for that either; in the face of any and every situation I find myself in with him, I like smiling for him.

“So, this officially means we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, does it?” he wonders, starting up his ministrations once more. “That you trust me with your life?”

I remain silent for a little while, processing just how simple, yet so heavy the next few words would be. “Yes, it does. And I do.”

He nods to himself, watching himself work his way along my wing. “Well then, if we’re officially a couple… should we make it known?”

I freeze. I wasn’t already moving much, but now I’m stiff as a statue.

Listening to him talk about his past lovers was one thing, even if it was in a completely passing and not at all detailed capacity, but that is a topic I never thought either of us would bring up today. And maybe, if I was lucky, for a good, long while after — a few weeks, a month, a year, even. Granted, we’re not much of a secret to anypony with half a braincell, but actively coming out and announcing it to the world?

But now that I think about it… looking back on past experiences…

The nurse in Ponyville? She seemed pretty casual about it.

The press? More concerned with the will-they-won’t-they side of it more than the morality.

The guards? They just want Philip to be happy.

Soarin? He knows, and he’s fine with it.

Spitfire? She’s been doing everything in her power to make it happen.

Dad? He’d be okay with it, I think.

Mum?

…That’s where things get iffy.

But that’s the opinion of one against… how many? Surely she wouldn’t be that steadfast, to not bow to public pressure, and not with somepony like Dad on my side, right? She’d be happy I finally have a pony — a stallion to call my own. It just so happens that… he wasn’t what she may have expected.

Even she could overlook that for my sake, right?

…Right?

I retract my wing and crane my neck around to plant another kiss, this time on his cheek, then turn my body a little further and wrap him in a needy hug — forelegs, wings and all — and nuzzle under his chin. “Yeah,” I mumble uncertainly, hoping that hearing the words come out of my mouth would help steel my resolve. “I think we should.”

I’m not sure if it works.

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