"My name?" she whispered.
He dipped his chin, not quite a nod. It was too jerky for that.
"My father wouldn’t like me telling a strange man my name. He’s waiting for me. He’ll miss me if I—disappear."
He stared at her, his black eyes unnerving. "Is this"—he paused, thinking—"Stella?"
Now it was her turn to stare. "Of course."
Maybe she was still beneath the willow, asleep. Or perhaps she’d hit her head and been knocked unconscious.
Their home of origin, Stella—a place in which everyone came. Named for the power in their veins, the stories said. It was basic lessons learned in youth. She herself learned of Stella and the various continents and villages when she was five summers old.
"Are you hurt?" she asked suddenly.
He groaned as he shifted. His fingertips were reddened like he’d waved his hand over a flame.
"I saw you—" Her voice dropped, incredulous. "You fell from this sky. This must still be a dream. Men do not fall from the sky."
She touched her head and winced as her fingers hit the sore bump at the back. "I must be having a fevered vision."
Her lids fluttered as she prodded the back of her head. That was why she missed him when he suddenly appeared right before her.
The man had risen on his knees, one hand outstretched. There was no difference between the Stars speckling the sky and his eyes. Both held a little piece of something extraordinary within.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was tremulous.
"Something is causing you pain," the man said lowly—as if that were enough.
He reached for her, and she had nowhere else to run. She was forced into stillness as he pressed his fingers against her temples. At the first touch, a sigh escaped her. His hands were warm like the sun, his touch firm yet delicate.
His fingers traced over the side of her head until he pressed that throbbing spot at the back of her skull. She winced, but he did not pull away.
Soft white light filled the air, faint at first. As the ache in the back of her head dissipated, the light increased for one startling moment, then went out. His hand was still on her head.
"What was that?" she breathed. "What did you do?"
Instead of answering, he stood. Heart in her throat, her eyes traveled up the length of him—from his muscled thighs to the ash dusting his skin, and lingering at his manhood.
He made a low sound. She looked up. He stared down at her, black eyes filled with fiery interest.
He turned to leave, moving with ease, feet finding solid hold on the crumbling dirt. She followed in the large footprints he left.
He kept walking, away from the burnt flowers, straight toward the forest, shifting with shadows.
She stumbled after him. "Don’t go!" she called, the words ripped from within her.
He turned, revealing his profile. The Stars illuminated him.
"Go," he said.
She did not know much, a girl of only eighteen summers. She knew the sun was warm when it was closer to their planet, that the lake grew coated in thick ice in the cold months, and her favorite fruits were sweet berries, grown in the mountains.
And she knew she did not want to let this strange man go.
"Why? Where are you going to go?"
He turned back away from her. "Away."
