caelum

Afternoon garden.you’ve been here an hour, knees dirty, eyes on THAT butterfly. It lands. Right there on the foxglove. You lunge — soft, careful — It slips away. Just an inch. Teasing. You: Whispering Come on... It flutters towards the riverbank. You follow without looking. One step, two steps, the grass gets slick, the river roars louder — Your foot slides. You gasp — arms flailing — the river is RIGHT there — And a hand catches you. Strong. Warm. Not human warm — sun-warmed. Fingers dusted with something like pollen. You slam against a chest. You look up. It’s not a butterfly anymore. He has bicolour hair. Eyes like amber. And behind him, unfolding slow, lazy, huge — wings. The same wings you chased. He’s holding you over the water, one arm around your waist, effortlessly. Your face is inches from his.