Warmth.

That’s what I wake up to, sandwiched between the welcoming embrace of a firm mattress and a heavy blanket; a comforting, glowing warmth that radiates from within, absorbed by my surroundings, then flows back into me. Fills me. Leaves me contented, even when the shroud of sleep has only barely begun to fade away, slow as the tide on a calm ocean.

I know where I am, and where I’m not. I remember what happened — can still feel it, if I imagine hard enough, which isn’t that hard to do when my entire body… aches. Not the painful kind of ache, but the sort that happens after a lengthy workout session, which wouldn’t be too far from the truth —the kind that whispers of a job well done.

I pause. And then I softy smile.

A job well done indeed. And I’m actually proud of myself. Whether that pride is directed at the fact or the lack of shame, I can’t say, but whatever the case, I’m happy; I’d taken a leap of faith, let my inhibitions go, and everything had turned out okay.

Better than okay, because not only had I crossed a threshold, but I’d also enjoyed it, for all my initial reservations, and despite a moment or two of doubt and hesitation. And the memories are neither blurred nor gross, but… nice. Pleasant. In an entirely alien way, maybe even romantic; notions that I feel should contradict each other, but refuse to, and make me look back on it all with a sense of fondness.

The way he stroked my neck and cupped my cheeks…

The way I drew circles in his skin…

The way we sometimes kissed while the other…

…Let’s just say it was a welcome surprise, discovering how much stamina we both had. The one thing I don’t remember is where a round ended and another began. Except for the last, where we shared a slow, tender, quiet little peak before our bodies decided enough was enough.

Then came the cuddling, after we’d pushed the towels off and gotten under the sheets — too drunk in ecstasy to do more cleaning up than that, and too tired. And we lay there, face to face in the light of the bedside lamp, watching, staring, occasionally rubbing against or gently fondling one another, just to test the waters, even though we knew we didn’t have it in us. Spooning was out of the question too, since neither of us wanted to look away. So, we simply held each other close, his arms around me, my forelegs and a wing around him, and we closed our eyes and steadily dozed off.

I still haven’t opened them.

I’ve never done that before, sleeping with somepony. Not once. Not really. Shared a bed, sure, but… not this. And this is much better, definitely, so snug and intimate and… and everything else that could fit into that train of thought. I can almost forget neither of us have had a shower, or even washed our faces, or done anything to make ourselves look presentable come the break of dawn, which should be here any minute now.

But I don’t want a new day. I want to stay here, with him, and pretend like the world outside doesn’t exist, because we’re all we need to make each other happy. Nothing else.

…Does that sound possessive?

I hope it doesn’t, but I think it does.

I tighten my grip around him and try pulling myself closer for reassurance.

Except… he isn’t there.

Slowly, sluggishly, my eyes creak open, and I notice the room is quite a bit darker than I last remember seeing it — the lamp has been switched off, and so have the lights in the living room. I can scarcely even make out the shapes of the pillows and blanket through the gloom, but the silhouette of his slumbering form has vanished. I’m surprised his departure hadn’t awoken me, because I’m not the heaviest sleeper around, even when I had to train myself otherwise while in the reserves, but I also know he can be very careful when he wants to be. He showed me as much earlier last night.

But then if he isn’t here, where?

I blink a few slothful times, then scrunch my muzzle as I stretch all my limbs at once in an effort to wake myself up even more. And in a way, it works, but it also wakes me up to the fact that my wings, hindlegs, tail and, yes, even my rump and intimates are still quite sore. And unlike the rest of my body, it isn’t a pleasant ache — not debilitating by any means, but a reminder of just how enthusiastic I’d gotten, and a how I should take it easy for a bit.

My mane and tail are tangled and frazzled as well, and I also realise just how matted my coat is, nowhere more so than between my thighs and all across my rear, the sweat and other fluids having long since dried up. And I’m honestly not quite sure how to feel about it.

In the moment, it was only natural. But now, it’s… sobering.

And I need a shower.

Propping myself on an elbow, and after cracking my neck and rolling my shoulders, I squint through the dark over to the right, where I’m certain the bathroom should be.

But the door is only partly shut, and the pale orange glow of the heat lamps shines through the gaps. The steam fan is also on, and there also comes the sound of running water against waterproof tiles. And now I know where he is, and a small sense of relief washes over me, dispelling some subconscious fear I didn’t know I had; so long as I know he hadn’t left me, like I had thought of leaving him once upon a time, some half a year ago.

…That’s a memory I’d rather forget.

But now that it’s been brought to mind… I can’t help wondering if, maybe…

Well, surely it wouldn’t hurt to check up on him. Besides, there’s no chance of going back to sleep now — once I’m awake, I’m awake — and it’s too early to rise just yet either. And I need to give myself a thorough wash anyway, so if he’s willing to share, then all the better. And if it leads to some… other activities… then who’s to say I’d be complaining?

But his wellbeing first, then mine, and whatever shameful desires I’m holding out for secreted away in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind — that’s the order I need to be thinking in; he’s more to me than a toy, not that I’ve ever thought of him as one.

I fold over the blanket and stretch again as the cool air filters through, and feel the uncomfortable burn of muscles that say I’m better off resting. But I ignore them and roll over, lying on my belly to yawn and stretch some more, then rub the sleep from my eyes with my wingtips before crawling to the edge of the bed and delicately sliding off.

My rear hoof touches something cool and slightly moist, from which I recoil. But although I can’t see as effectively as I’d like, I can certainly smell — and recognise — the scent of my own musk; the towels we’d brushed aside, still pungent in the stagnant air. Yet another reminder, and another sobering reality that I’m not quite sure how I should feel about. I’m an adult, yes, and I should be… if not comfortable, then at the very least at peace with the fact that, of course, things get messy when sex happens.

But at the same time… there’s something I can’t put my hoof on with any degree of absolute precision — a feeling of restlessness that grows the more I allow myself to dwell on it; like I’d been weak-willed, or what I’d done was wrong.

That I’d made another mistake, and this was just as terrible and irredeemable as the last.

But… we were both aware this time, and we both enjoyed it. So…

And yet my ears angle back regardless, and my tail and wings tuck in all the same.

I look over at the bathroom entrance again, a weight softly coming to rest on my shoulders, then quietly gulp and continue walking the rest of the way, now with a slight sense of caution in my step. And when I reach the door, I bow my head and listen close.

The fan is still spinning. The water is still flowing. It doesn’t sound like he’s doing anything, so I suppose I wouldn’t be interrupting. Hopefully. I think I’m just after somepony to be with anyway, for companionship. Support.

I nudge the way open and peer inside through narrowed eyes, then wait for them to adjust.

Steam clings to the ceiling, humidifies the walls, fogs up the mirror by the sink. Either the water is scoldingly hot or the fan isn’t doing its job probably, or maybe both. In any case, he’s clearly been in here for quite a while for the damp to have built up this much, and for the air itself to feel clammy to breathe.

But I don’t hear any movement, nor do I see his blurred outline standing behind the opaque glass of the shower’s enclosure. And that… worries me.

I take a few steps in, the sound of my hooves noticeable through the eerie calm.

No reaction.

I clear the doorway and gently shut it behind me.

Still nothing.

I tentatively cross the short distance for the shower. If he’s in there, he should be able to see my silhouette casting an ambient shadow. More so when I reach out for the handle to slide it open.

And still, there’s no response.

I pause, taking a deep breath, feeling the weight on my shoulders grow heavier, and a small pit opening up within me. Part of me can’t help thinking I’m crossing a boundary, somehow, as if I’ve trespassed, and this would be another mark upon what little reputation I have with him — another stain that won’t be washed out, much less painted over; even though we’ve done and said worse things, and took active pleasure in each other’s embrace not a few hours ago, for what might’ve been hours on end… there are some limits that shouldn’t be met, and waters that shouldn’t be tested.

But I need to be sure. And this is beginning to feel potently familiar.

With my resolve tempered as well as my frail nerves can manage, I let the same breath silently go and slowly, carefully pull the door aside, then lean in a little way.

It’s a spacious design, as it is with most every modern bathroom, built to accommodate more than just one kind of creature, tiled in cream-coloured squares, less slippery on the floor for grip. Steam rises from the water pooling and draining in the centre, where the wall-mounted showerhead is aimed.

And there he is, resting in the far corner, safely outside the stream, sitting with a leg folded beneath him and the other bent at an angle, folded arms lying loose and limp in his lap, head back, blankly staring high into the distance. And for a disconcertingly long amount of time — so long that I’m starting to worry if something is legitimately wrong with him, medically speaking — he doesn’t react. He blinks, he breathes, but it isn’t after about ten increasingly nerve-wracking seconds that his eyes drift my way. And even then, his expression doesn’t change.

I stare back, concerned. He’ll say what he needs to when he’s ready, but in the meantime, I’m stuck trying to figure out where I’ve seen this before, because it seems like he’s holding something back, but isn’t brave enough to share it just yet.

And then it hits me.

His stoic mask.

It’s been so long since he last used it that I’d forgotten he had it in the first place.

Which means he’s been doing some thinking — pondering over an idea he holds no love for. It appears that whatever the notion that got into his head as led him down a path he didn’t mean to follow, and now he can’t find his way out of the deep, dark woods. Not without assistance.

My assistance.

I press my lips together and crease my brows as I blow a gentle sigh through my nose, and the weight on my shoulders has lessened somewhat. Then, I step in, close the door behind me with a wing, and douse my mane, nape, back, croup and tail as I shuffle through the pouring water to his side, sitting on my rump, leaning against him.

He tracks me with his gaze, but keeps his head still, and when I’m settled, he lingers on me for a few moments before looking up to the ceiling once more. And for a while, there is calm; a brooding calm like the one before a storm, filled with running water, the hum of a fan, and the warmth of soaked fur, but a calm nonetheless.

And then he opens his mouth.

And then he shuts it, faintly frowning a troubled frown.

And then he takes a deep breath in, then out, and turns his head and peers at me from the corner of his eye. “Do you believe in destiny, Fleet?”

I quirk an eyebrow, but only for a second or two before I softly shake my head.

He chews on his cheek, looking forward to a horizon I can’t see. “What about my name?” he slowly murmurs, sounding slightly grim. “Did I ever tell you what it means?”

Again, I shake my head, but I lean into him a little more because don’t like where this is going; I tend to be right about those sorts of things.

Another few deep breaths, then he silently gulps as he angles his leg to help cover himself up, not that I’m looking down there anyway, and not that there’s anything to notice — the most I can see through my peripheral vision is a dark shadow. “I go by Philip, which is… the English way of saying Felipe — my actual name, if you remember. And Felipe is derived from the ancient Greek Philippos, which means, when broken down into its elements… friend, or lover, of horses.”

My ears perk up as my eyes widen, and a sudden chill seeps through my fur despite the humidity.

This is… unexpected.

“Didn’t remember until just a few minutes ago, or whatever,” he mumbles, giving a small, slow, lethargic shrug. “I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Didn’t mean to wake you, if I did. But… yeah. Now I’m wondering if this is all just highly improbable, extremely unlikely, basically zero-to-one chance, or maybe… somehow…”

Yes. Yes, that is something of a conundrum. And I’m fresh out of sagely advice to offer, although I can’t say I’ve ever experienced such a heavy-hitting existential question such as that before. And then there are the questions that arise from it as well. I can’t think of them right now, still reeling from the muted sense of shock, but I’m sure they’re there, waiting for somepony of greater intellect; somepony wiser than either of us.

“Because if that’s the case, then that means… I was destined to come here, and meet you, and…”

And what? Is he implying that what we have isn’t genuine — an obligation, rather than something based on mutual respect, admiration and, cheesy as I’m sure this all sounds, affection? Because I know for a fact that simply isn’t the case. We’d both have realised something was amiss from the very start, and if we couldn’t correct whatever it was, we’d have parted ways while making sure neither one of us disliked the other for doing so.

No, these niceties aren’t a front for anything, and I’m putting words in his mouth. But still, this isn’t a good train of thought to be on, and I need to help him change its course, or jump ship entirely. And the best way I can think of doing that is by presenting him with an ultimatum.

“Do you regret it?” I ask softly, part of me worried for the answer I might hear, which would confirm my fears about this whole thing being a mistake.

He turns to me, raising an upturned eyebrow with an apprehensive look on his face, and I can tell he wants to say something, but isn’t sure how to phrase it, and thinks it could be taken very poorly if he doesn’t get it right. So many feelings at once that he doesn’t know how to express them.

So, I offer my two bits. “I don’t,” I say, and for all the hesitation I felt while waking up and coming here, I mean it. And I watch my hoof for a moment as it slowly rises and comes to gently rest on the outer edge of his thigh before meeting his gaze again. “I… liked getting to know you. And I liked… last night. And… I wouldn’t mind if we did it all again, knowing we’d end up here.”

He pauses, staring with a softening expression, apprehension giving way to sympathy. “Nor would I,” he quietly murmurs, lightly shaking his head. “I’m just… worried.”

“About?”

He shrugs once more, no less weary than before. “Whether I’ve made the right choice.” He looks away as he breathes a slow, heavy, pensive sigh. “If there was a choice to make.”

“I know I’ve made mine.”

And then he returns to me impassively, the air around him unreadable, though it’s easy to tell that he isn’t being critical — more… acknowledging; the very act of looking signifies that I’ve made a point and gotten his attention. But whether I can make something of it remains to be seen.

“I love you, Philip.” I lean over and give him a tender peck on the cheek, then watch him with upturned brows and sympathetic eyes. “You love me, don’t you?”

“I do,” he says unreservedly.

That stokes a fire in me — one that fills my chest with a warmth and drapes an equally warm and fuzzy blanket over my back, and I have to keep myself from grinning too wide. “Then isn’t that reason enough not to be afraid?”

He pauses again, then lowers his gaze to the tiles between us. “The world isn’t like that, Fleet.”

“We aren’t the world,” I implore, lifting the hoof from his thigh and reaching it across his midsection to pull myself closer in a gentle hug. “We’re just… two individuals, who found each other by highly improbable, extremely unlikely, basically zero-to-one chance. We don’t have to worry about anypony else’s opinion, because they aren’t us. It doesn’t concern them. And no matter what they say, I’ll never stop loving you. Never.”

His attention wanders back to me, and it lingers there, watching, staring… peering into me.

And still, the fire grows — more humid now than the steam I breathe.

And then, slowly, he shifts his weight from one side to the other, angling himself toward me, snaking out of my grasp. And all the while, he lays an arm over my withers, and wraps the second around my barrel, and bows his head to nuzzle it into the fur of my chest, which puffs up a little at the unexpected attention.

Unexpected, but not unwelcome. And my heart is beating all the harder for it.

I spread my wings, the left wrapping around his back and the other shading us from any droplets coming from overhead. And under their protective shadow, I close my eyes and drape my neck over his, and reach a hoof up to his exposed shoulder as the other hugs the arm hugging me. And I hold him there, so near to my heart, the wetness on his skin and in his hair dampening my coat.

And for a long time, there is silence. Even the cascading water seems more distant — white noise that tunes out over time. And all that’s left is the gentle rise and fall of my chest, and the faint sound of a sniffle or two from below; not crying, but letting a few errant breaths go, and some excess emotion with them.

I softly smile. I’ve grown so used to leaning on him for support that I’d forgotten how good it can feel to be the one leaned on for once — a leader, in a sense, but only for a team of two: he and I, and nopony else. It’s just us in here, and I like it that way.

Stars above, I really have found a good one.

But I’m not above admitting there are certain things that could do with some improvement.

“One tiny complaint, though,” I quietly say, lightly patting his shoulder and hugging his arm a little tighter. “Just a small one.”

“Name it,” he replies without hesitation, shaking his head against me. “Anything.”

Well, that certainly makes it easier, though my smile grows a teensy bit wider at how candid he sounded, and how eager he is to please. Not that I have a power fetish or anything. “Could you please give yourself a shave down there, for next time?” I ask, squeezing the same shoulder as my ears slightly lower and my hindlegs shuffle in place, a little embarrassed. “It was kind of distracting. And ticklish.”

He pauses. “Next time?”

I pause too, and then my eyes slowly open, and I stare with half-closed lids at the drain ahead of us as the realisation sinks in.

And then a soft coolness washes over me, emanating from nowhere in particular, and the smile I didn’t know had shrunk returns to its widened state.

“Yeah,” I whisper, as much to myself as to him. And then I angle my head so my mouth is that much closer to his ear, and I smirk wickedly. “You’re not bad for seven inches.”

Another pause, and then he begins to laugh. He catches it in the back of his throat so that it’s more physical than vocal, but it’s a laugh nonetheless, and I can feel the grin long before he pulls away and looks at me. “I certainly hope so, Fleet,” he affirms, still giggling. “I certainly hope so.”

I wait for the mirth to subside, then lean in and give him a kiss — a proper one, smack bang on the mouth. And when he kisses back, I hum contentedly. And for a while, we stay like that, teasing and toying with each other’s lips in slow, sensual motions, eyes closed, sharing breath.

And it’s perfect.

Yes, I haven’t cleaned myself, and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, and the position in which I’m sitting isn’t the most comfortable, and I’m feeling slightly exposed what with all the ‘goods’ effectively laid bare… but it’s perfect. This moment, stretching on for at least a minute. Everything else fades away, lost in a void of endless white, and just us in the centre of it all.

It’s so perfect, in fact, that I almost don’t feel the hand on my side gently sliding down to my belly, and then a little further southwards, and I break the kiss as my breath quietly hitches, and a tingle runs through me from my core. “You’re not planning something, are you?”

“Only if you want me to.”

My eyes flutter open, and I stare into his with a sultry smile, but I ponder on his response, and eventually decide that some restraint is warranted. “Just fondle me for now,” I say, peering down to the solitary teat he has cupped in his palm. “Let’s see how I feel in five minutes.”

He softly nods, then nuzzles into my chest again.

I sigh, resting my head against the wall, closing my eyes once more and losing myself as best I can to the sensation of his body on mine, touching me in places no decent pony touches. My tail twitches, but doesn’t go so far as to try and hike — it’s nice, but not nearly that erotic by itself. Just that bit too foreign, I guess. For now; familiarity breeds contempt, after all, although in this case, I wouldn’t be so bold as to call it contempt — more like… appreciation.

Yeah. Appreciation.

And for a good, long while, he stays where he is, the side of his head buried in my fur, shoulder pressed to mine, arm over my withers, and his hand holding me, but surprisingly… never groping. I won’t complain if that’s what he wants this time, but it’s strange, to know that he has me right where he wants me, but isn’t going the extra step — the very same I know he’s taken before, with gusto.

It’s only been a minute. Plenty can change in the remaining four.

“Fleet?” he beckons.

“Yeah?” I query.

Yet again, he pauses, but this one is far weightier than all the others; it doesn’t offer many specifics, but it says that another contentious thought has been reached, and he needs reassurance for something he already knows the answer for. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

I don’t reply. Not immediately, measuring his words.

But then my eyes open, and I smile a small, weary, amused smile up at the ceiling, or what little of it I can see from underneath my own wing, feathertips dripping with the water caught overhead.

“Yeah,” I whisper, and it warms me to the core to say it. “I think we are.”