Morning.

When I don’t have to get up for rehearsal or training, it’s easily the most relaxing part of any day. Otherwise, that honour goes to the evening, when muscles are sore, wings are strained, and your coat could do with a long, hot bath to wash the sweat out. Those flight suits may be designed to allow your body to breathe, but that if it’s a particularly warm afternoon, they’re more like a sauna.

Thankfully, today isn’t turning out to be one of those days, according to the forecast, as I lounge on the sofa with the ukulele in my wings, strumming the strings and staring at the ceiling. New tunes are hard to come by, but it’s good to try — to stay in practice, at least, even if freestyling gets me nowhere. I owe it to myself, I guess; our friendship had started, in part, because he shared a song of his with me, and it began blossoming into something else when I shared one of my own. I’d be cheating us both if I didn’t keep with tradition.

I pause, then huff a quiet snort and smirk.

And there I was, however many weeks ago, saying I don’t do tradition for tradition’s sake.

Oh, the times, they are a-changing.

I resume playing, adding a few twists and turns to that alleged classic by Bob Dylan — so many weird human names, and so many of them male, apparently — searching for something that sticks. But even while I begin, I know it’s useless: it wouldn’t be original, just a spinoff. And considering we’ve both grown pretty accustomed to most of the songs he brought over, I’m sure he’d wizen up pretty quick. Such are the perils of dating such a singular individual.

Except, we’ve moved beyond the dating stage, haven’t we?

We took our sweet time, but… yeah.

And I don’t regret it. Not really. Some parts could’ve done with improvement, sure — by a sizeable margin, in some cases — but it’s all come together in the end. We had doubts, even during those moments when there wasn’t any room for them, but we faced and overcame them, and they aren’t here anymore. Struck from our hearts, if I’m to speak poetically. Even if there was… nothing poetic about that night in particular.

I cross my hindlegs, bashfully, blushingly smiling to myself and trying my hardest to think of something else. If I focus too much on it, I might just act on the impulse to do something embarrassing, and I have no intention of becoming that kind of mare; always ready, always hungry at every second of every day. Heat is bad enough, which is why most take medication to avoid it altogether, myself included, or treat only the symptoms — something every would-be mother does if she doesn’t want to advertise that she’s trying for a foal.

Stars, I remember back when I was training in the reserves, some poor girl from the farmlands in the south had joined, and she’d gone her whole life without any pharmaceutical help, trusting herbs, the outdoors and a good amount of perfume. Long story short, after a few close calls with a stallion or two and a hard chat with then-Captain Silver Streak, she got over her reluctance and decided being safe was better than being… something else.

Can’t remember why she was so hesitant, though. Something to do with the meds giving any future kids a mental handicap, I think, or what have you. Ill-informed and uneducated nonsense, really — that much I do remember — and it proved to me that clinging to tradition could sometimes do more harm than good.

The world marches on, with or without you. Sometimes you’re the catalyst, sometimes you’re just a passenger, but you owe it to yourself to stay aboard, or you’ll get left behind. And you might just drag a few close friends down with you, although you’d never mean to.

…Well, that got philosophic.

Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

Oh, I know. It was just unexpected.

What part of this romance wasn’t?

…Also quite true. And this has been the longest, most nerve-wracking, most fulfilling experience I’ve ever had, not counting my career, which has steadily grown easier as the years passed by. And I think I can safely say that I’ve never been happier to have been proven wrong.

Well, maybe not wrong; perhaps I looked down on the topic with scorn at some point, but that wouldn’t have been the majority. No, if somepony found their significant other, I wouldn’t fault them for doing what their heart desired most — that’s what I did when it came to being a Wonderbolt, after all. Same motive, different goals. Now, when one came in the way of the other, that’s where my reservations surfaced, as my previous partner found out eighteen years ago.

Turns out not everything is meant to be.

I’ve got a good feeling about him, though. A very good feeling.

I mean, it’s not like he has much of a choice, does he? Who else would be brave enough to give a guy as strange as him a shot, if not the girl who saved his life from a falling car?

Soarin, I suppose, if he was being serious that night in the bar. Brave too, I guess — she may claim he’s just a friend to her, but I get the feeling it wouldn’t take much to persuade her into giving him a shot; she seems the type who’d be up for just about anything. A hard swig of whiskey, maybe, and some sweet-talking, and then her boisterous attitude would melt, revealing just how red-faced and easily swooned she can be. Putty in his hands. And my hooves.

…Merciful Sisters, what’s gotten into me? Now I’m shipping him with others? Dreaming of starting a little herd for myself? Since when did I get so depraved?

I laugh. The times have definitely changed, indeed.

“Oh, my sweet lovelies, yes, it is I — your host, Opal Spotlight,” I hear the television say once the laughter dies down to chuckles, and I realise I’ve stopped playing the ukulele. “You’re all much too good for me, I swear.”

I close my eyes and smile. She doesn’t know the half of it.

“But!” she continues, and the applause of the audience dies down. “Thank you all for coming, and welcome to another edition of The Spyglass. It has been a wild, absolutely tumultuous couple of weeks, hasn’t it? We’ve had intrigue and drama and a staggeringly high amount of new titles to be arriving soon at a theatre near you. A treat, beyond all doubt — really liked that trailer for The Marvels; seems like there’s promise there, in my opinion.”

Yes, because the more technology is introduced, the more possibilities are opened up. He’s already given out a rare exclusive interview or two about the state of his homeworld, with permission from the Big Four, and the press ate up every detail like dogs with peanut butter. I saw the trailer too, and judging by the cast of big-time actors and superpowered escapades, this seems to be the start of a ‘cinematic universe’, or whatever his Earth’s film industry calls it.

I don’t think it’ll catch on. Too much of a time investment, and probably all just to bait the promise of a sequel, provided enough cash flows.

“But before we recap on other news, there is, of course, a pair of singular individuals who are on the tips of everypony’s tongue, and who I’m sure we’re all very excited to check in on.”

“PHILIFOOT!”

My ears twitch. My brows crease. My smile wanes.

Should’ve figured. Should’ve switched it over to something less provocative. Too late now.

I strum the strings without much care, trying to muffle her mouth-noises more than anything.

“Our favourite couple, yes! And it appears they’ve grown even closer, ever since dear Fleetybee’s birthday.” I can practically hear her smug look as I imagine her leaning in. “Of course, this has led to a number of rumours surrounding the two, namely the nature of their meeting that very night, and how she stayed at his well into the morning.”

My playing ceases once more as I frown from the corner of my eyes at the screen.

Whatever happened is none of their business. And whoever started these supposed rumours can shove them where the sun doesn’t shine, especially if they’re just saying it for the heck of it; we can’t have been that loud. And I’m not a squealer.

“There’s another rumour circling about, my dears, and this one comes all the way from the palace of Canterlot itself!” She straightens up and beams a sickeningly wide grin for all the world to see, rocking back on her hooves like she needs to use the little girls’ room. “Apparently, Princess Celestia wishes to extend our resident human an invitation to the next Grand Galloping Gala as a guest of honour — his first ever!”

My frown deepens to a scowl, this time with an added hint of confusion as I cock my head upright.

That doesn’t sound like something she’d do. Not if she knows he still harbours a grudge. And considering his guards are supposed to report directly to her, it wouldn’t be too hard to figure that out — he changes the subject whenever she comes up in conversation, or just goes quiet. More than a few awkward silences were had because of it.

“Naturally, this has us all wondering whether any of this is true, and if it is, whether he’d be interested.” The screen cuts to some shaky footage of him walking through Equinox Park, accompanied by Ironside. Reporters follow and shout their questions and flash their cameras, getting as close as possible. Brave and Phalanx try their best to keep a stable perimeter, but there’s only so much they can do without getting forceful. “His answer is inconclusive.”

Philip wears a cap and shades — the standard look for a celebrity aiming to avoid the limelight — but even behind those, I can tell by the way he holds himself that he’d rather be in the cold depths of Tartarus. He’s tense. Stiff. Avoiding eye contact. Staring at the footpath ahead of him and nowhere else, hands in his jacket pockets, noticeably cringing whenever I think somepony mentions me, either by name or as his girlfriend; our relationship isn’t a secret at this point, and there were always shippers from the start. Opal, if I recall, was one of the original perpetrators.

I feel a pang in my chest, like a razor run along a violin: deep, cutting and unnerving. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s trying his darndest to stick it out, but it just isn’t working for him. And it’ll only get worse the more open about our relationship we are. Maybe we’ve gotten over what we are, but there’s still the matter of who, and this is one obstacle he won’t overcome. Not easily. And it isn’t fair. Not on him — on either of us, but him most of all.

I catch a peek of his eyes peering over the shades for a brief moment — those small, brown, expressive eyes — before he immediately switches back to trying to focus on the floor, grimacing to himself. But in that brief moment… I see fear.

Why can’t anypony else? Why is it so hard for them to see that he isn’t a thing; he’s a person, same as the rest of us, with his own insecurities and likes and dislikes and… and… and other stuff that I’ve grown to recognise and appreciate and love. He’s more than a walking, talking bag of blood, bones and personality.

He’s Philip.

Felipe Ajam Guadalupe Montero.

And I love him.

And…

…

…

…

…

…

…Love takes compromise.

He’s already done his part, looking past certain aspects I can’t change about myself… and growing to fancy some others, much to my pleasant surprise. It would only be fair if… I did something equally world-shattering in turn.

Except, it wouldn’t be world-shattering. Not really.

Not when I have him.

And it would only happen if he says yes.

I set the ukulele on the floor at the foot of the sofa, reaching out for the remote on the coffee table to switch off the television — hadn’t really been listening since I saw his eyes anyhow. Then, I roll over and slide off, tossing the remote onto the couch and leaping into the air for my bed ledge. There, I rummage through the bedside table and pick out my goggles, which I fasten around my head, and my music player, which I strap to my foreleg. The earbuds go in their rightful place, and then I glide down to the front door.

This is a very hasty decision, and I might just be kicking up a lot of fuss over nothing, but I haven’t felt this lightweight, this clear-headed about anything since joining the Bolts, and even more so since he literally dropped into my life. I’m motivated; taking charge because I want to, rather than letting the world dictate things for me. Yes, I’m reacting to a problem, but…

Screw it. No using in justifying this. It just feels right.

I am in control.

And nothing and nopony can make me think otherwise.

I scroll through the song library for something to listen to, stopping at and selecting Mr. Blue Sky, then pull open the door and step out onto the porch.

Higher up, a couple dozen reporters and journalists — an increasingly generous term for their profession nowadays — sit on clouds, cameras at the ready. And the second one of them notices me, all the ones who hadn’t been paying attention instantly snap to, a few calling out their questions from afar, all about Philip. Can’t hear any of them over the music, though.

Wouldn’t waste time on them anyhow.

As the drumroll builds, I crouch down and wind myself up, and just as the first note of the electric guitar hits, I rocket straight into the sky with an audible airburst, silver streaking in my wake, nearly obliterating the landing area for the cumulus.

Doesn’t matter. That can be fixed with time and effort. So can a relationship, but never as easily, and I’m not going to keep anypony waiting. Him least of all.

But there are some others I need to see first.

Banking left, wings slicing the air like a hot knife through butter, wind whipping through my mane and tail, catching in my goggles, playing across my cheeks as the music fills my ears, I turn and head for Cloudsdale proper.

---

“You’re moving?”

“Possibly,” I reply, eyeing the latte Mum had brewed for me, wondering whether now would be a good time to take a sip, or if I’d just come across as dismissive. Figuring it wouldn’t really matter either way — she’ll think what she’d want to think — I bring the cup to my lips and drink.

She lingers on me with a look of mute surprise, then slowly allows her gaze to wander to the empty space on the table between us. I used to have lunch out here, in the backyard, with Soarin and Spitfire when we were young enough to call hanging out playdates. Clouds could never beat solid ground for the sheer amount of fun things to do and see, but there was always a strange pleasure in inviting somepony over for the afternoon, or even a sleepover. Bonus points if we managed to convince both sets of parents to extend it for an extra day or two.

But today isn’t anything like that. I’m still confident in myself, but I’ve left the fantasy behind, and now I’m dealing with the reality. And the reality this might not sit well with certain individuals, Mum and Dad especially.

I peer over to their cumulus, trying to snatch of glimpse of the interior through the windows, and maybe reminisce a little on my life before I left and made my own place.

“How soon?”

“I don’t know.” Another sip. “That depends on him.”

She looks up at me. “Him?”

I return to her, angling my head and cocking an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Oh,” she says after a beat, then gently nods to herself, ears lowering a little way. “Philip.”

“Yes. Philip.” I have to remind myself to not get too defensive about this — she was the restrained one, after all, and I need to respect that she was respectful, in her own way. But decades of collective experience aren’t easily forgotten. “I’d be moving in with him.”

“To get away from us?”

“No.”

She looks up again, brows raised. “No?”

I shake my head. “To support him.”

She pauses, glancing me up and down with wary interest. “Haven’t you done that already? You know, by… being there for him.”

I snort, then help myself to a third sip and savour the taste. “Mum, you know it’s never as simple as that,” I continue, shaking my head again with an amused smirk — to think I’d ever get the chance to lecture her on relationships. “We’re… close, sure, but that doesn’t mean everything is going to be rock-steady from here on out. I’m a celebrity, and so is he, but he isn’t comfortable with that. So, I think it might be best if I pop the question and see if he’d like to share, so I’d be better positioned to help him through this.”

Her brows hike to their highest limit, eyes widening in an expression of utter shock. “You’re marrying him too?”

“What? No!” I chuckle. “Perish the thought, Mum! No, I’d just be moving in, and I swear, that’s all. Marriage is, like, the furthest thing from my mind right now. And even if I were ready for that, there’s no guarantee he’d ever be. I mean, it took him this long to get over the fact that I’m a pony, and he still has some reservations when it comes to…”

Her face, already a light blue thanks to her coat, and paling faintly with age, seems to grow just a little paler. “To…?”

“Preening,” I answer, and with perfect timing — back to my old self, it seems. And then I fake a small fit of giggles. “He gets weird about it, sometimes. You know, because it’s something he’s never had to do back in his world, being the only sapient species.”

But for all my efforts, Mum doesn’t appear terribly convinced, and lets her gaze drift once more to the table with a troubled frown, lifting her teacup and taking a sip of her own.

There really is only so much you can say to change somepony’s mind. After that, all you can do is try to make the pill just a bit easier to swallow, be it through mutual respect, or acknowledging the other’s fears.

“Does it still bother you?”

“Of course it does,” she curtly replies, snapping to me with the same frown, now tinged with a touch of concern. But she takes pains to make sure she doesn’t sound like she’s talking down to me, which is definitely a marked improvement over so many occasions before. “He’s not like you, Fleetfoot. You say you can’t guarantee he’ll ever want to marry you, but you can’t guarantee a lot of other things either, can you? Different needs, or… incompatible personalities — things you don’t notice until you actually know this pony. What he’s like. On the inside.”

I shrug. “You’ve just described pretty much every relationship in existence.”

“And yours is no exception.”

“I know.” I set the mug aside and lean across the table a little way, bowing my head slightly, peering up at her with an imploring look and a soft smile. “But trust me, Mum, I wouldn’t have gone down this road if I thought this wasn’t something worth pursuing.”

She lingers on me, then purses her lips and glances away. “And if you want foals?”

“Then we’ll adopt,” I state, glossing over how much the idea of having a swollen, bloated belly for six months really doesn’t appeal to me. Add to that a full day of abdominal cramps and labour, or longer, and it’s an absolute wonder why any female of any species would want to put themselves through all that. At least dragons and seaponies don’t have to deal with the pregnant part of pregnancy. “Does it really matter if it’s mine or not?”

She doesn’t respond, watching her tea ripple about in its cup, the breeze blowing through and swaying her blonde curls. She wants to say something, but knows, as I do with her, that she’d never get me to agree, and trying would end up with us getting frustrated.

I don’t like seeing her like that. Perhaps, once upon a time, I would’ve. Or maybe not. If the reveal in Twilight’s castle helped me discover anything about myself, it’s that I hadn’t done all this to spite her; this relationship isn’t built on resentment, and I’m not out to burn any bridges. I’m better than that, and my own mother deserves better. For all her faults, and how condescending, judgemental, and everything else she’s been over the course of my life, there have still been ten good times for every bad.

Speaking of which…

“Didn’t you and Dad have a rough patch or two?”

Her ears pin back, and she avoids eye contact. “We’re not talking about your father and I, Fleety. We’re talking about you. My little girl.”

That would be a yes, then. “But I’m not little anymore, Mum.”

“Yes, you are.” Now she meets my gaze, sorrowful, but not exactly despairing — not like I’m breaking her heart by saying any of this. “You always will be. To me. I just want you to be happy.”

“And I am, Mum.” I reach across the table and lay my hoof over hers, smiling softly. “I just need you to trust me on this. And if this all comes tumbling down around me, then you can tell me you told me so.”

“But I don’t want that, Fleetfoot. I want things to be perfect for you.”

…Sweet stars above, the irony here is sublime.

“So do I,” I say after a beat. “But mistakes happen. That’s part of life. And you and I both know I’ve made some pretty big ones. Left two ponies in the dark too long. Gave one of them the wrong impression.”

She, too, pauses, measuring my words, then looks to her left as if to peer over her shoulder, but doesn’t move her head. Even so, I know what she’s picturing in her mind, and her worried expression only confirms it.

I sigh, frowning at the house again with a pit opening up inside me and a weight tugging at my core. “He isn’t going to like this, is he?”

Mum stays there for a short while, pretending to stare at him, but eventually switches back to me with a restless look. “He’s being… stubborn,” she mumbles. “How he handled everything was wrong, and he knows that, but he won’t apologise for sticking up for you — says it was his fatherly duty. But honestly… I think he’s just a little hurt, about trusting you to find love at your own pace, and you not trusting us to hear about any of it.”

“That’s why I’m telling you now.” My brows soften to something that I hope resembles assurance. “You’re the first, Mum. And so is Dad, by proxy. I walled myself off before, and I forgot to stay in contact — that was shitty of me. I shouldn’t have done that. Maybe you don’t have to be involved in every aspect of my life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be a part of it.”

She nods idly. I can’t be sure whether she believes me or not.

No use fretting about it. It is what it is, and I’ve made my choice.

“Do you think he’ll want to speak to me again sometime?”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” she replies with a small smile and a surprisingly chipper tone, nodding once more and with more strength, laying her other hoof over mine. “He’ll come around eventually. Just… give him time, dear. Time to adjust. Believe me, sharing a house with somepony isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

I quirk an eyebrow, smirking, the weight at my core lightening and the pit sealing over. “Maybe there’s some advice you can give me on the matter.”

“Maybe.” She chuckles softly. “But only if you promise not to kiss and tell.”

“Oh, take it from me, Mum: I’m pretty good at keeping secrets.”

---

“You’re dropping out?”

“Possibly,” I reply, figuring an unintentionally recycled line deserves an intentionally cycled response. And then I rub the back of my neck with a hoof and sigh. “I don’t know. I’m just… at a crossroads right now, I guess, and I want to keep everypony informed. Notified. Forewarned, or whatever.”

Spitfire blinks from behind her shades, brows high, ears at attention, mouth slightly open, looking as if I’ve set a new Academy record. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen that face, and if this whole thing ends up going nowhere, I doubt it would be the last.

“Oh,” she remarks, clearly trying to hide her shock and moderate… disappointment? That’s certainly a surprise on my end. “Well, uh… any particular reason why?”

I cock an eyebrow. “Any particular reason why I’d want to tell my best friend and commanding officer that I’m considering leaving Equestria’s best and most famous flying unit?”

“No, no, I mean…” She hesitates, then shakes her head, taking off the aviators and watching as she sets them on the desk before her, its surface strewn with paperwork. “Well, it’s not like I can stop you, but… at least tell me why I shouldn’t try, because this isn’t the kind of decision you should ever make lightly; once you’re gone, you’re gone. If you want back in, you’d have to prove yourself to the assessors all over again, and there’s no guarantee you’d make it through that.”

I snort. “Are you telling me I’m too old?”

“No, Fleet, I’m telling you this could be a mistake.” She looks up almost pleadingly. “Now, I’m not one to tell you what to do, but I can tell you the consequences; even if you make it through recruitment, even if someone throws in the towel from the team itself, and even I pick you and somehow dodge the claims of nepotism that the media might call for my resignation over, there’ll always be talk about how you’d basically already admitted that your time had passed.”

I shrug. “Maybe it has.”

“It hasn’t.” Her tone takes on a warning edge, and so does her expression. “If I can keep going, if Soarin can keep going — heck, if Rainbow can keep going, that lazy, self-centred ninny — so can you. To say nothing of the fact that it was our dream, the three of us, to make it this far. And now you’re, what… abandoning us?”

“I haven’t made a decision yet, Spits,” I assure, shrugging again, but more defensively. “And besides, I wouldn’t be abandoning you.”

Her gentle frown deepens slightly. “We’re a team, aren’t we?”

“We are.”

“And a team sticks together, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” I sigh once more. “Look, this isn’t exactly easy for me either. I mean, yes, I’m probably being a little rash about this—”

“More than a little.”

“—However,” I stress, raising a placative hoof, “and this is important, I don’t intend to act on anything unless I’m given reason to.”

She angles her head and leans over the desk, quirking an eyebrow impatiently and rolling her own hoof. “That reason being…?”

“Philip.”

She pauses, not exactly stunned, but clearly taken at least somewhat aback. But then her brows knit together and she returns to her seat, cocking her head in the other direction. “He didn’t tell you to hang up the suit for good, did he?”

“No,” I answer resolutely. “He told me he wants me to live my life the way I want, and he’ll adjust.”

Another pause, and then she sits back and folds her forelegs against her jacket — the official captain’s uniform, for when she’s stuck indoors reviewing the written aptitude tests of new recruits. She’s coming to a realisation, but still wants to make sure there’s nothing else beneath the surface. “And this is what you want, is it, and no one else?”

“Possibly,” I firmly reiterate. “As I said before, I haven’t done anything yet. I haven’t even discussed it with him. I’m covering all other bases first, getting everything in place that needs to be in place should something happen, and then I’ll see if this is the route he wants to take.”

“Him, not you?”

“Me too, but…”

She waits.

I sigh for a third time, closing my eyes, head slumping forward to the edge of her desk, the goggles coming between my brow and the actual surface with an audible thud. “Spitty, please, don’t take any of this personally, and don’t think he’s tearing me away from you, or Soarin, or the Bolts, or anything. He wants me to be happy, but I can’t be happy with myself unless he’s happy. And while I’m happy to stay in the spotlight, he isn’t. So, I just need, like, a week off to do what I need to do, talk with him, and figure this out.”

Yet more silence, and this one feels far more frigid compared to the others — heavier on not just the mind, but the heart; Spitfire and I have never had a talk like this before, and it’s obvious to me now that while she may have been playing matchmaker, she hadn’t thought it would come to this. And I can’t really blame her, knowing what a workaholic I was.

But that’s the key word: was. Not anymore. And all throughout the flight here, to when I walked into her office, to when I sat down, to when I laid out my possible intentions, it wasn’t the leaving I was dreading, but leaving her. After all, how are you supposed to tell your best friend that you don’t feel as committed as you once were. The Wonderbolts are as much a family as they are a group of random individuals.

Cohesion demands familiarity, and you can only truly trust a wingpony when you know enough about them to consider them a friend.

“Well, like I said, I can’t stop you, if this is what you really want,” Spitfire says with a sigh of her own, but it doesn’t sound totally dejected. “But I also have to recognise that… love complicates things. Isn’t that right?”

I lift my head and gently nod. “You can say that again.”

“Perhaps I will, in a few weeks’ time.”

Now I open my eyes and look at her properly, eyebrow cocked, as well as an ear.

It takes her a moment to notice, staring off into la-la land with a very faint, almost imperceptible smirk on her lips. But when she does, she doesn’t hide the expression, but widens it. “Soarin suggested we give dating a shot.”

I pause. And then I bink. And then I baulk. “He what?”

“Yep.” Spitfire nods. “I mean, I’ve known about his crush on me for ages, so him telling me that wasn’t a big surprise — confessed it right after we finished dancing at your birthday, in fact.”

“And you agreed?”

She shrugs, returned to her cool, easy-going persona. “Could be fun. You never know. And besides, if he’s been holding onto it for years out of respect for me, the least I can do is humour him.”

I blink again, and then begin to settle, emitting a soft cuckle. “So, this is a pity date.”

Once more, she shrugs. “Call it what you will. I just know that if it weren’t for Philip winning your affection, Soarin might never have acted on his. And yeah, it might not end up going anywhere, because I’m not entirely sold on the idea just yet, but… hey. No harm in trying, right?”

“Even though you work together?” I query with a slight sense of bemusement. “Even though he’s your subordinate? Even though he’s your best friend, second only to me?”

“Don’t start this, Fleety,” she casually warns, shaking her head, still smirking. “You know I don’t pick favourites.”

“Except for the time you picked me for the team when you took over for Silver Streak.”

“I don’t pick favourites,” she knowingly affirms, a cheeky glint in her fiery eyes. “But as for Soarin? Eh. I mean, we’ve been around each other enough that we know what makes the other tick, so I trust him not to be a total embarrassment. You know, more than usual.”

“Are you sure about this?”

Yet again, she shrugs. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

“Even though the press might…”

“Let me worry about what they’ll think of me, if they manage to find out.” She snorts. “Besides, you’re a bit of a role model in that regard, aren’t you? It’s not like they ever got in the way of you and Philip becoming an item, did they?”

For a second, I stare at her, a nagging, annoying little feeling at the back of my head, worried that she’d somehow found out how far we’d gone. Not that she’d take any offence if she did, and not that I’d have any reason to be ashamed; it’s what we, as a couple, are well within our right to do and enjoy.

But I quickly realise what I already know: she hadn’t meant anything by it. “I guess not,” I say, trying to sound sure, though I’m not entirely sure of it myself. “Just… pretend you aren’t famous, and soon you’ll forget that you are.”

“Sage advice.” Spitfire nods again. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind when we’re having a picnic in the clouds.”

“A picnic?” I laugh. “Didn’t take you for that kind of girl.”

“Oh, and you’re one to judge, are you? Trying to sneak on down to Redcliff in a frock all fancy-like, hoping to catch the sunset on a seaside vista with your boyfriend.”

My smile fades.

She taps her temple with the tip of her wing. “I pay attention, Fleetybee, and you’re never as subtle as you like to think. It’s easy to spot what gets to you, and I don’t need to be your friend to see them.”

It’s not so much that revelation that gets to me as it is a new idea.

A dangerous idea.

An image, more like, of us — me and him — sipping wine at the top of that cliff, lounging on a red and white blanket, silhouettes cast by the sinking sun. He would look at me, and I would look at him, and we’d smile and… kiss… and we’d have our dinner there: curry, made by me. And we’d paint over another permanent stain with a newer, better memory.

A foolish, fanciful notion made by a starry-eyed girl drunk on her own high of self-confidence.

But one I’m now determined to make come true.

“I’ll give you however long you need,” Spitfire says, snapping me out of my small, whimsical fantasy. “But if this doesn’t pan out the way you say it might, I want you doing my lot of paperwork for the next semester. You’re overdue on the amount of leave I’ve already given you anyway. It’s about time you paid your debts. And so help me, if you leaving the Bolts is a get-out-of-jail-free card…”

“It isn’t,” I assure, chuckling, but still somewhat distracted. And then I clear my throat and stand up from the chair. “Anyway, yeah, uh… Thanks. For hearing me out, I mean. And doing this.”

“You need to be somewhere?” she asks, noting my restlessness.

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Not really.”

“Then what’s the rush?”

“…Let’s just say it’s about time I reconnect with an old friend.”

---

It’s evening by the time I reach Redcliff, approaching from the west, the glare of the setting sun on the ocean threatening to blind me if it weren’t for the slight tint in my goggles, which still have some frost in the corners from when I crossed the Appleachians. Could’ve brought a sweater at least, if nothing else, and not just relied on my natural resistance to temperature, but I figured the sooner I get this over with, while this… impulse keeps me going, the sooner this will all be over and done with. And then I can finally get some rest.

…Maybe it isn’t confidence that’s driving me anymore. Maybe it’s something else.

Duty, perhaps? Obligation?

I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t really care to know. All I know is that I’m here, at my intended destination, and it looks… quaint. Charming. All the little houses, scattered about on the short, steep peninsula, the tramline stretching from the station all the way down to Baltimare in the distance to the south. The grass is green, the lighthouse is dormant, and a few small wooden dinghies out on the calm water, their occupants — an even mix of griffons and ponies, it seems — casting nets and lines for the fish.

That last part almost makes me do a double take; it’s not every day you see ponies hunt in Equestrian territory. In other countries, sure, because you tend to adopt the practices of the cultural region in which you’re living, but on home turf, it’s practically unheard of. To say nothing of our largely herbivorous nature, most ponies — or at least the ones I associate with — take no pride in making other creatures suffer.

As far as I’m aware. I could be wrong.

I hope I’m not.

Nevertheless, quickly shaking my head, I dive lower and scan the village for any signs of life, and for one individual in particular. There’s some activity by the café — a celebration of some sort, probably. Maybe a birthday. I’m too high up to tell, and the wind is rushing by my ears too hard, so I can’t hear the speech somepony is clearly making.

It’s a happy occasion. I’d rather not disturb them.

There’s a lone pony out in the front yard of a house, close to the southern edge of the peninsula. Gardening, it seems, a wide-brimmed sunhat on their head as they focus on the ground beneath their hooves. Nothing of any immediate concern occupying their time. The perfect candidate to bother with a simple enquiry.

I sweep down and glide, appreciating the sudden warmth of a lower altitude for a moment, then land at a trot on the cobblestone pathway before the fence, wings folding and shuffling at my sides.

“Excuse me,” I beckon as I quickly slow myself to a hurried walk, and then a complete stop, raising a hoof to pull the goggles from my eyes and set them on my brow. And with the brightness of the world coming into play, I find myself squinting somewhat.

“Who’s there?” he asks without looking up from his work: meticulous weeding. And instantly, I can tell his voice is really quite gruff. Sounds like a weary traveller who’s finally found his place in the world, and subsequent peace, and isn’t too happy about the world coming to knock on his door again. His dark grey coat and black, windswept mane and tail definitely gives him a Grogar may care appearance.

“Fleetfoot, sir.” I clear my throat and try slicking a few errant hairs back into place in my mane. “The Wonderbolt. I’m… searching for somepony.”

He doesn’t stop. Not immediately. And when he does, and he looks up at me with a certain sense of apathy, like I’m distracting him from something important, but he’s too polite to simply tell me to go away. In the shadow of his hat, yellow eyes peer back at me from over the edge of black-framed glasses, a slight stubble following his jawline and unsmiling muzzle. Something tells me he isn’t the sort who trusts easily. Might have come all the way out here to escape society as a whole.

We’re one in the same, then. Let’s just hope I can turn this to my advantage, if that’s the case. Kindred spirits helping each other and all that jazz.

“You know this place is full of people who don’t want to be found, right?”

Score one for my intuition. “Yeah, but I’m not trying to ruffle anypony’s feathers,” I say with what I hope to be a casual shrug. “I’m just after somepony who knows the place, and she’s the only one I know. On a surface level. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“I know who you’re after.”

Ah. So, word spread about the incident further up on the cliff, so many months ago.

“Do you mind telling me where she is?” I query, a small, guilty weight settling on my shoulders. But I refuse to let it drag me down — it’s long in the past, and I can’t change that; I can only move forward. “Again, I’m not here to stir up trouble. I’m just after—”

The door to his house opens, and standing in the entryway on her hindlegs, a plate of snacks and beverages in her clawed hands… is her. And the second she opens her beak to announce that something was about to be served, she notices me, and she beams a grin. “Fleetfoot!”

I blink, brows high and ears attentive, wings fluttering at my sides in surprise. “Gytha?”

“The one and only!” She descends the steps and continues along the footpath, still walking on two legs, and keeping remarkable balance. Might just be a griffon thing. “I was wondering if I’d ever get to see you again.”

“Well, uh…” Truth is best. I might be staying here for a while, after all. “To be honest… I’ve been avoiding this place like the plague. You know, in case any news crews started getting curious about what’s going on in this corner of Equestria.”

“Yeah, we had a few.” She shrugs, stopping by her husband — if my memory of her description holds true — and setting the plate beside him, giving him a short, soft hug from behind before strolling closer to the fence. I hadn't connected the dots until seeing them together. “I had to convince Rhythmic to help convince the town to help us keep the heat off you. I stayed with Gaufrid, and Rhythmic stayed with Penny and Azure, and everyone had to pretend we weren’t a couple.”

“Loneliest week of my entire life,” he mutters. I can’t tell if he’s being serious.

Gytha flashes him an unimpressed glance before returning to me and pretending he hadn't implied what I think he did. “Anyway, yes, as you can tell, he wasn’t very happy with the situation. However, as I said long ago, don’t worry about it. He’s a loyal pup, so if I say you’re welcome, you’re welcome.”

I linger on him, watching as he gives me a sideways look, the air around him unreadable. I doubt he’d be out for blood, though, and I’m sure I’d win even if he was; to say nothing of the fact I’ve had some combat training — less than other branches of the military, naturally, but more substantial than your everyday karate class — he’s a little on the lean side, not nearly as well-built as most stallions tend to be. Not thin, but… slim. Judging by his cutie mark, I’d guess his strength lies in the pen, rather than the sword.

“Am I welcome?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow and switching focus to Gytha.

“Of course!” she answers, sitting on her haunches and spreading her wings and arms out wide in a welcoming gesture, another grin plastered on her face. “Why wouldn’t you be? Kindred spirits, remember?”

“My thoughts exactly,” I say, and then cough and beat my chest to get a tickle out of my throat.

She cocks her head, her smile fading. “You alright there, Fleetfoot?”

“Yeah.” I cough again. “Why?”

“You just look… frazzled.”

I laugh. “Flying nonstop for two days tends to do that to you.”

“Two…” she begins, then drifts off, blinking with widening eyes. “Wait, you mean to say you haven’t had any rest at all since leaving… where? Cloudsdale?”

“Oh, nah, of course I did.” I glibly wave her off. “Napped on a cloud last night before I braved the Appleachians in the morning. Had some breakfast there too, of daisies and daffodils.”

“And that’s it? Nothing since?”

I shrug once more. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“No, no, no, you can’t do that to yourself, missy,” she insists, shaking her head and rising to all fours, striding for the gate and opening it. “I don’t care who you are or what you’re trying to do, but you’re coming inside right this minute and—”

“I’m not here for me.” I shy away from and sweep her outstretched claws aside, backing up a few steps. “Not… not really. And I’m not here for you either, and however you think I think you can help me.”

She hesitates, staring at me in confusion.

“Is that house you mentioned still for sale?”

Her eyes widen further, and expression slowly morphs into bemusement. “You’re not thinking of buying it, are you?”

“I am, as a matter of fact.” I punctuate the statement by giving the cobbles a soft but solid stomp. And it honestly surprises me how easily I say that.

“As a summer home?” Rhythmic questions, putting his efforts with the garden bed on hold.

I turn to him and shrug yet again. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m just weighing my options for now.”

He watches me for a moment, carefully inspecting me up and down from his side of the fence with prudent, calculating eyes. And then he looks to Gytha and smirks — the first sign of genuine positivity I’ve seen from him today. Not that I’ve known him that long. “And she says she isn’t here for herself,” he remarks, a hint of mirth in his low voice. “Methinks she’s having a bit of a midlife crisis.”

“Well, maybe I am,” I retort, wings flicking open and closed in a small, quick, flustered shrug of their own. “And so what if I am? I’m just trying to look out for somepony I care about. Can you really blame me for that? What next? You’re going to tell me it’s my fault I let myself fall for him? Because, let me tell you, mister, you’re kinda-sorta already preaching to the—”

“Okay, okay,” Gytha interrupts, having somehow snuck up on me, laying an arm around my shoulders and patting my chest, where I notice the fur has noticeably puffed out, “I think we get the picture. Take a deep breath, Fleetfoot. Calm down. Alright?”

Having the fact pointed out makes me deflate in an instant, not unlike when I was thirteen, and swear words had the potency of nails on a chalkboard, and I’d cursed for the first time out of pure frustration. I couldn’t take back what I’d said, so it was all downhill from there — I was becoming immoral.

If only I knew how far that path would lead, and who my degeneracy would eventually lead me to…

Stars above, I’m scatterbrained.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replies with a kindly smile, much to my mute surprise. “You’re… going through a lot right now, aren’t you?”

I snort, then chuckle, lifting a hoof to brush back even more hair. Maybe I had overdone the flying part of this trip. “I really don’t know anymore.”

Gytha nods slowly, thoughtfully. And then she looks to Rhythmic.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, back to his impassive self. And then, with a gentle roll of the eyes, he sighs and nods behind him to the house. “Let the poor mare in. Help her to some of that tea you love so much. Kindred spirits and all that jazz.”

---

Gytha returns the kettle to its hotplate and wanders over to the table by the kitchen window with two teacups, setting one in front of me as she takes her own seat on the opposite side, smiling a candid smile. “Go ahead,” she says, gesturing eagerly . “It’s sweet — imported from the Neighpon Archipelago, if you’d believe it. Always takes the edge off my nerves. Not that there’s much that stresses me out nowadays.”

I blink, then peer down at the tea; yellow, with flakes swirling around at the bottom. I’ve never been one for any kind of brew, honestly, but she’s already given me shelter, so I may as well take her up on any other offers passed my way.

I try hiding my reluctance as I bring the rim to my lips and sip — a stoic mask, like Philip does. And now, apparently, Rhythmic too.

It tastes like…

…Hot water.

With a bitter, heavy aroma that sticks to the back of my throat.

Definitely not for me.

Regardless, I look to her with a small smile of my own and nod approvingly. If I don’t say anything she won’t be offended; she’s literally the hoof that’s feeding me.

She nods in kind. “Now, what was that about buying a house?”

I blink a second time. Straight to business, it seems. Then again, she hadn’t beaten around the bush when we last met — picked up exactly what we’d been trying to keep on the downlow. “Well, that’s pretty much it, isn’t it?” I say with an idle shrug. “I think it might help him… and me too, maybe… if we had somewhere else to go that wasn’t immediately in the public’s eye.”

“A fair assessment.” She bobs her head from side to side. “But are you sure this is the right move?”

“As sure as I’ll ever be,” I mumble, almost taking another sip before I remember that this isn’t hard cider I’m drinking. “And even if it isn’t, it’s a mistake I can afford. I honestly have more money than I know what to do with.”

She gives a shrug of her own, as well as a smirk. “Well, I mean, if you have so much to spare, my husband and I have been thinking of doing some renovations…”

I chuckle, glancing behind me for the rest of the house. “Why would you? It seems plenty big enough for two already.”

“You never know.” Again, she shrugs. “There’s still some space to fill.”

“With what?”

Gytha doesn’t reply, watching as she taps a talon on the edge of her cup, a dreamy smile across her beak and a distant look in her eyes.

I’m not entirely sure I understand what she’s getting at, but some of the blanks have been filled, and I decide to let the topic be for now and move on to less tender territory. Not that I’m afraid she’d find the subject touchy in any way, but rather because it doesn’t concern and, frankly, probably wouldn’t interest me.

I look to my right, taking a peek out the window, observing the front yard for a moment, along with the stallion still weeding the garden bed. It’s difficult to say whether he’s enjoying himself, but he’s definitely fixated on the task. Dutiful, in a deep, brooding, mysterious and clichéd kind of way. Not quite the pony I’d imagined her settling down for, if she was ever such a free spirit.

“What’s his name again?” I find myself asking before I have the mind to stop.

“Who?” She snaps to me, brows high and seeming somewhat surprised. And then she leans forward and follows my gaze. “My hubby?”

Hubby. Gosh, that’s… actually pretty adorable. “Yeah.”

Gytha lingers on him, then pulls back and looks up at the ceiling with a whimsical grin. “Rhythmic Prose,” she practically purrs, drawing the syllables out without them sounding too captivated. “Good gods, if that isn’t a name…”

I almost cock an eyebrow. Almost. Of all the things to make a griffon swoon, I’d never have thought it would be something as simple as a pony’s name. But stranger things have happened, I suppose — I mean, I say that, and yet both Philip and I were lost for words at each other’s songs. If there’s anything more worthy of an eye-roll, I can’t think of it; it’s the oldest, most unabashedly starry-eyed trope in the book.

But there we were, on the foreshore, twice, and it happened twice. And for better and for worse, both led to some… interesting nocturnal activity — something I dare not speak of in polite company.

Pulling my legs in a little closer, I sigh, shuffling in my seat and shifting my wings at my sides.

“What does he do?” I ask, mostly because I’m genuinely interested, partly because I need to take my mind off things, and this tea certainly won’t give me any pleasant thoughts.

Gytha continues staring, still with that whimsical grin, and then her eyes return to mine. “He’s a writer, mainly, and a singer-songwriter on the side, though he’s never really liked the attention much, so he operates under pen names and aliases, and never shows his face in public.”

Sounds a bit like my guy.

“That’s kind of how we met, actually.”

This time, I do quirk an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” She chuckles. “See, I’d already moved here, and was hoping to make a few bits on the side of helping out with the fishing — we sell everything fresh in the farmers’ market down the coast in Baltimare. Being a girl who’d never owned her own place before, I bought a house too big for myself. So, I opened it up as a kind of bed and breakfast sort of deal.”

“That’s where he came in?”

“That where he came in.” She takes another sip of her tea, savouring the flavour and aftertaste. “He was writing a book that he still hasn’t published, and one of the main characters was a griffon. He was looking for a way to covertly get to know one without seeming like he was only interested in the fact I was and still am… well, a griffon.”

“Was he famous then?”

She snorted. “He’s never been famous. That doesn’t stop him from trying, but I’ve learned to not expect great success. Maybe if he got that book of his out there, but everything else has just been… dust in the wind, I guess.

“Anyway, yeah, he was staying here, appreciating the view, the isolation, the… whatever else you’re supposed to call a place like this, and he’d ask me about myself every night. Sometimes, I’d ask him some questions. And it went like that for about six months.”

I draw my head back in surprise. “Six months?”

“What can I say?” She shrugs, looking out the window to him again. “He was good company. Time slipped by and I barely noticed. And when I did… that’s when I started wondering if, maybe…”

“…You liked him?” I finish.

She pauses, seeming a little distant, then nods, her focus still on him. “I’d make a pretty shitty innkeeper, I think, if this sets a precedent. I mean, who the heck makes a lover out of their first guest ever?”

My eyebrow quirks once more. “Did you… court each other?”

Another pause, and her smirk reemerges as her attention switches back to me, a shameless twinkle in her gaze. “For the better part of an afternoon.”

I blink, taking a moment to process her words, then feel my eyes widen and brows rise as the fur on my chest bristles and a slight amount of warmth tickles my cheeks. I’m also made aware of a faint twitch in my wings and core, though I can’t tell what feeling is behind it.

“I mean… I was a lonely girl, he was a lonely guy, and he kind of already had a thing for griffons, so…” She chuckles, and cools her mirth with a third sip of her tea. “I’m an opportunist. I see a chance for some fun, I take it. And while there were some reservations between us, we figured that no one needed to know — the people here tend to keep to themselves, anyway. Not that they aren’t friendly.”

“Who was the most reserved?” I ask, so quick and easy that it’s almost like I want to hear this.

Perhaps I do.

“Rhythmic,” she answers. “Mainly because he wasn’t initially as interested in me as I was in him. But after that night, and especially in the morning, I made sure he stayed very interested.”

My cheeks grow warmer, and there’s a soft tension in my withers.

“I’m a hen of simple tastes,” she purrs, leaning in and narrowing her eyes, running the tip of her tongue along the edge of her beak, “but he tasted damn fine.”

“Okay!” I give an awkward chuckle and push my chair back a little way, noticing the air around me has risen a few degrees. “I think that’s enough information.”

She tilts her up and bursts out in laughter, slapping the table and almost spilling her tea. “Oh, my dear,” she howls, “my dearest, dearest dear, if you think I’m shy in any way in that regard, you can bloody well think again. I am not sorry I bagged me that piece of ass, and he isn’t either.”

“And I don’t need to know the details, you absolute minx, you.”

“You weren’t complaining a moment ago.” She reclines in her seat and beams a smug grin. “If you want to be my neighbour, you’ll just have to get used to it: whether you like it or not, I’m an extremely open book. And if it makes you squirm, all the better.”

An ultimatum. Not as definite as the previous… however many there have been before, but an ultimatum all the same; she doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d change for just anypony.

And there’s also an offer hidden in there.

“Does that mean you’re good with me buying that place?”

Gytha pauses, her grin lessening to a smile, then sips her tea as if it’s the cure to a minor bout of intoxication. “I really don’t see why you shouldn’t, if you think it’ll help you.”

“…So…?”

“Yeah.” She nods once more. “Yeah, I’ll contact the owner for you — put in a good word. On one condition.”

“What?”

She licks her beak again, another sly twinkle in her eyes, then folds her forelegs on the table and cocks her head, her gaze perfectly balanced between haughty and dreamy. “You stay the night here, rest up for the morning. And in the meantime, you and I grab a few cold ones, lounge around, and you tell me… everything. The whole story, start to finish, and every point in between. Because there’s no way I’m missing out on hearing this.”

---

I knock on the door, then step back and wait.

It opens less than a minute later, and he’s standing in the doorway with a plain shirt, cargo shorts and bare feet. His legs are hairy. Not sure why that would be a problem, though, or why I’d take notice if I’ve seen them so many times before.

My eyes sting a little.

“Fleetybee?”

“Yeah, hey,” I respond automatically, buying some time for me to gather my thoughts and blink. “Do you, uh… mind if I come in for a minute? There’s something I need to talk about with you.”

He frowns down at me, hesitant and confused, but eventually steps aside and grants me access.

I trot through and glance around the space, searching for a good place to sit, but also considering whether isn’t breaking the news to him now would be ample enough — Gytha never beats around the bush, and neither do I. Usually. I’m pretty sure there have been points where I’d be better off calling myself a hypocrite.

Stars, it’s difficult to focus.

I settle on the couch, doubling back and rounding the end to leap up and onto the corner piece, sitting on my haunches. We made out here once. A few times, actually. I think. Could’ve all just been from a single night. Or day, or whatever. Regardless, it made me feel nice. This is as good a place as any to make an announcement.

He follows me through, but at a more cautionary pace, and takes a seat within reach of me, watching me with a curious, careful expression, brows upturned with one of them quirked. “You seem… dishevelled.”

I blink again, then squint down at myself and notice that, indeed, my fur is more messy and matted than it should be, and some patches are still a little damp. “Oh,” I remark absently. “Yeah, there was this storm I flew through to get here. Could’ve gone around, but I didn’t want to waste any time.”

The concern in his eyes doesn’t fade. In fact, he appears to grow even more anxious.

Better do some damage control. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get struck by lightning this time.”

“This time?”

Crap, that was the wrong thing to say. “Look, just… don’t worry about that. I didn’t come here to have you tell me I should go to the hospital or anything, because I don’t need it. And even if I was thunderstruck, it wouldn’t matter, because it’s next to nothing to a pegasus anyway.”

He continues staring for a short while, but then shuts his mouth and settles back down, folding his arms in his lap.

It’s the first time I’ve met him in a week — since that night where… stuff happened. I feel like this should be a momentous occasion, somehow, and I also feel a little ashamed that I hadn’t at least called him before now — that I might have made the same mistake with him that I’d made with my parents. Even though we parted on good terms after breakfast, with a sweet and… oh so tender hug, and a kiss… and sharing breath… And it was lovely.

Especially that soft nibble on the tip of my ear. That was…

Merciful Sisters, the entire visit was a wild…

No. Focus. I need to focus. I didn’t come here to fantasise or reminisce.

Much.

“I want you to move in with me.”

“You…” He blinks. “You what?”

I hesitate, wondering for a second if I’d actually said what I meant to say, and when I decide that I had, I nod, both for my own sake as well as his. “I want you to move in with me,” I repeat, perhaps a little more sure of myself. “Not up in Cloudsdale, but somewhere else.”

“Like where?” he queries cagily.

“Redcliff. There’s a house for sale. I could sell my place, buy that one, and we could move in together. You won’t have to be mooching off the Sisters anymore, and you won’t have to stay in the public—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the bleeping phone for just a minute, Fleet.” He leans forward a little way and cocks his head, frowning, as if he’s just about ready to stand up and face me in defiance; how dare I suggest this perfectly reasonable option to him. “What do you mean you…”

I wait. I understand this is a lot to take in, especially when it’s seemingly come out of the blue — I know I’d be thrown for a loop if he came up with this before I did. I just need to be patient. It’s what good partners have in abundance.

He shuts his eyes and bites his lower lip — so full and delectable — as he takes a moment to recompose and calm himself. “…Why do you want me to move in with you?”

My ear twitches. That wasn’t a flat rejection. There’s hope yet. “Because this isn’t the kind of lifestyle I want for you. And it’s not the kind you want either.”

His eyes open and a brow arches, though both remain creased an a sceptical expression. “What lifestyle?”

“This,” I say, motioning to the whole of the apartment in a sweeping gesture. But I quickly decide that’s too vague and hop off the sofa, trotting across the living room carpet and over to the sliding door that leads onto the balcony. The blinds have been drawn shut, shrouding the apartment in a moderate amount of darkness. There’s enough ambient light bleeding through to see in clarity, but when I pull them back, it feels for a second as if I’m staring directly at the sun at dawn.

As my eyes adjust, the teams of aerial reporters come into focus, and they notice that something is finally happening, just like when I left home, they instantly hop to and refocus their cameras on the opening. The only thing stopping them from storming through the breach is Ironside, who patrols the airspace with a sense of duty and precision. Phalanx acts as backup, standing at attention on the balcony, slowly craning his head from left to right. He takes notice that something must have changed and looks over his shoulder, spies me, then nods in acknowledgement, returning to the task of maintaining order and privacy.

It’s as much a detention centre as it is a residence.

I swing back to Philip and gesture to the scene with a wing. “That. It’s never going away if things don’t change, and I’m willing to make that change. All I need to know is whether you’re ready to make it too.”

Still, he remains uncertain. “What kind of change?”

“I told you: Redcliff.”

“The place you said we’d never go back to?”

“Yes, exactly. I already spoke with Gytha, and she’ll be passing on the word to that house’s owner that I’m interested — and that it’s all to be kept on the downlow, of course.”

He blinks in increasing confusion, then closes his eyes again. “Fleet…” he murmurs, shaking his head into a waiting palm, “it won’t matter how far you move. They’ll always be there.”

“Only so long as I’m in the Bolts.” I turn to face him directly and take a deep breath, straightening my neck and puffing out my chest to give myself as much resolve as I can muster. “That’s why I’m ready to quit. For you.”

He snaps to me, eyes wide and brows high. “What?”

“I’ve had a chat with Spitfire too. She understands.”

“No, Fleet, I told you, I don’t want you to give up what you love for—”

“I’m not giving up what I love.” I take a few small steps forward. “I like flying. I… love… you.”

He doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Not in the last part, but whether this plan has been concocted with a stable mind. Which, to be fair, isn’t an unreasonable concern, and I’m sure by the way I’m acting and sounding that I were in his place, I’d be just as apprehensive.

He shakes his head once more and looks away. “You can’t do this. Not for me.”

“I can and I will. I want to, if it means making you happier. All you need to do is say yes.”

His hesitancy doesn’t abate. Not yet. “Being a Wonderbolt was your dream, Fleet.”

“It was.” I begin strolling closer, ears low and neck level with my spine, peering up at his as I approach. “For a time. I achieved that dream, and that was all I ever wanted. But not anymore.”

“But, Fleet, you…” He shakes his head some more. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I know, Philip.” I sit on my haunches before him and drape a hoof over his hands, one clutching the other’s thumb and holding tight. “I’ve just spent the last four days flying all over the place — crossed the Appleachians twice — operating on a single latte and barely any food or sleep because… I’ve never felt more certain about anything in my entire life. Not since…”

That nabs his attention, and he meets my imploring gaze with an anxious one.

I avert my eyes, first to his knee, and then to my hoof, and my wings droop at my sides as I let a quiet, pensive sigh go. We promised we’d be truthful, and he’s already told me about his past. My turn has been long overdue.

“There was… another,” I say, swallowing what pride there is to swallow. “Before you. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty years back, when I was in the reserves.”

There’s a pause, and then one of his hands slips out and lays itself over my own hoof — a sandwich of limbs, and heartening to feel. Especially when he gives me a soft squeeze that runs down my foreleg in a faint, cool and pleasant shiver, making my wings twitch.

"Honestly, it was so long ago, and I barely even stirred on it for a long while after.” I gently, absently nod to myself, trying to focus on the story I’m telling, and not how much I want to hug him. “In fact, I think I’m only remembering it now because I had a lot of time to think on the flight here. But it happened quickly. I remember that much. Really quickly, if we’re anything to go by — like, maybe only a month or two before things started getting… physical. But I went along with it because I thought Wonderbolts were good with just about anything — could handle any pace.

“And besides, I was in control. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but I told myself that if I ever found it too much for me to handle, I could ease up at any time, or I’d bring it up with him and we’d sort it all out.

“But as my time in the reserves went on… it grew harder and harder to balance my ambitions with his, and where we stood as a couple. Reality hit me hard, and that kind of sapped the romance out of everything. And I realised that I was in a relationship with somepony I didn’t really have feelings for. And it didn’t help when he thought the solution was more… you know.”

Another tender squeeze. Another urge to hug him repressed.

“At some point, enough was enough, and I left. I focussed on training, Spitfire got me in, and that was that. Bluntly put, flying made me happier than he ever did, and I’ve never looked back. I still don’t regret it.” I look up at him. “But what I do regret… is thinking that my career is the only thing worth pursuing. That finding a true special somepony would just be a waste of time. And you, Philip… you’re anything but a waste.”

His lips have parted. His gaze has returned to that enraptured state, where I know he’s listening, but he can’t bring himself to react in any meaningful way. It fills my barrel with warmth and spreads a treacherously delighted grin across my muzzle — one I try to suppress with all my might.

“Love takes compromise, and you’ve sacrificed a lot.” I bow my head forward and gives the back of his hand a compassionate peck. “It’s time I start making some too.”

He continues staring, conscious, but unsure of what to say, if anything — something I can relate to very easily. But eventually, he blinks. It’s a slow, tentative motion, as if he’s worried that if he takes his eyes off of me for even a split second, I’d turn against him, or disappear, or something. I don’t know. I’m not in the mood to contemplate either.

“…This is what you want?” he queries with a quaver.

I rise on my hindlegs, a forehoof on his knee, the other slipping out to latch onto his shoulder. And I close my eyes and lean in for a kiss. Long and tender, sweet and savoured. “I want this,” I avow once I break away, peering into him and that enthralled gaze of his, so easily and readily captivated by everything I do. “Day in, day out, every morning and every night. Just us, together. Forever and ever.”

The whisper of a breathless chuckle escapes him, and a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Just us, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” I kiss him again, and gently push him over, letting him come to lie on the couch at an angle. It’s a little awkward, standing on the floor, so I break the connection and carefully hop up, sitting in his lap and straddling him with all four of my legs. “And Gytha and her husband, but… they don’t need to know what happens behind closed doors.”

Another chuckle, and he glances down — only as far as my neck, but I’m sure he knows where I’m going with this. And that smile of his grows in a perfect blend of recognition, hesitation and succulent, delectable anticipation. “You’re trying to sweeten the deal, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I purr, then arch myself forward and press my nose against his, feeling a familiar tingle in my withers spreading into my wings. “Or maybe all that flying has left me… extremely wound-up.”

He blinks, then looks at something behind me, some of his excitement vanishing instantly. “They’re still out there, Fleet.”

My ears perk up and I cock an eyebrow, puzzled, but then they all lower as I realise what he’s talking about. Yes, I may have liked the cameras once upon a time, but not anymore. And if even one of them have captured what a compromising position we’re in right now — not that any should be close enough to zoom in through the glass — and they see the drapes drawn shut, they’ll connect the dots.

This isn’t a good time to bang one out.

But my heart is beating too hard to ignore.

“We could just do it in the kitchen,” I offer, direct and unapologetic. “They won’t see us there.”

“Oh, no, Fleet.” He shakes his head, already a little red in the face, and combs his fingers through my mane and scratches behind my ear. “No, no, no. If there’s one thing you need to know about what kind of lover I am, it’s that, with me, there’s no such thing as a quickie.”

…Sweet stars above, I’m this close to melting on the inside.

He seems to take notice, and smirks. “You’re that horny, huh?”

“Like you would not believe.”

He slowly nods, inspecting me up and down appraisingly, weight the options and licking his lips. And making me wish it were sliding along an altogether different pair of lips in the process. “Well then,” he says, returning to me, “why don’t we…”

But then he drifts off, and I notice that something is changing too.

We both look behind us.

Phalanx is standing by the entrance to the balcony on his side of the glass, drawing the blinds shut with his magic. And when he sees that we’ve seen him, he merely bows his head, smiling innocently, and gives a dutiful salute. And when the gap of light from the blinds is extinguished, it’s just me, Philip, and the entire apartment, all to ourselves.

I look to him.

He looks to me.

“You shaved, right?”

“Oh, you know I did.”

I bite my lip, narrow my eyes and grunt. Heatedly. “Bedroom?”

And then, without a word, in a single swift, almost practiced motion, he wraps me up in his arms and stands with me cradled at his side, where he then adjusts his grip and carries me like he did before, on that… absolutely wonderful night.

I giggle, curling all four legs in, mostly so I’m easier and more compact to carry, but also because I know it makes me look cuter too. “That didn’t take much convincing, did it?” I remark, smiling up at him.

His smile is faint, and shrinking.

My brows knit together. "What?"

"You… really want to quit the Wonderbolts?” he queries, concerned. “Just for me? There’s nothing else going on, is there? A reason to… escape?"

I blink, processing, pondering his words, and my attention drifts over the blinds.

And what hovers just outside.

"No. Not just for you.” I return to him. “For us."

"And you’re… a hundred percent certain you could live with that?"

Spitfire had asked me something along those very same lines three or four days ago. I was pretty sure then, but now, in his arms, his fingers gently digging into my fur… touching, holding… loving me… there isn’t a single doubt in my mind.

I wiggle a forehoof at him, beckoning him closer.

He silently obeys, bowing his head.

I give his nose a small peck. "With you, yes." And then my ears go flat. "Gosh, that sounds sappy. You are such a bad influence. You know that, right?"

“Shush,” he whispers, giving my snout a peck of his own before carefully strolling for the doorway. "If you’re sure about this, then I’m there for you, all the way."

Rubbing a tender hoof against his chest, the fire at my core rekindles with a vengeance as we enter his room, and I can't help letting out an anxious, excited laugh. At him, at my decision, at… all of it combined.

“Hey, we need to keep things quiet, remember? This place isn’t soundproof.”

I snort. “Not like I make much noise anyway.”

Philip angles his head, taking a sharp breath through his nose as he smirks.

My own smile falls. “What?”

He clicks his tongue and knowingly shakes his head.

I blink, then baulk with a gaping mouth. “I’m not a squealer!”

“In your own time, maybe.” He closes the bedroom door with a gentle kick, then glances down to between my thighs, a ravenous glint in his eyes. “But I wouldn’t hedge my bets when you’re with me. You may want to bite a pillow for this.”

“…Oh,” I say ineffectually, then let my gaze wander to the ceiling as a new wave of warmth overtakes me, full of depraved thoughts about what he might have in mind. And all the things we could be doing when we really have some time to ourselves. “Oh my…”

Next Chapter: 36 | The Start of Something Good Estimated time remaining: 31 Minutes