Something inside me clicked painfully into place.
I wanted that smile.
Always.
I wanted to be the reason for it.
“Lunar moths are considered harbingers of good luck in my realm,” I explained quietly.
She stepped slightly closer this time, curiosity overcoming fear.
“It’s silly,” she admitted softly, “but I’ve been terrified of moths since I was little.”
Immediately, my focus sharpened.
Why?
Who frightened you?
Who made you afraid?
The protectiveness hit hard and immediate, ugly in its intensity.
I did not like imagining her scared.
At all.
“No,” I said quietly. “That’s not silly.”
Her eyes flicked to mine in surprise.
“Did something happen?”
She hesitated.
And suddenly I wanted more than surface-level things.
Not just the way she twisted her hair while concentrating.
Not just the fact she ate gummy bears while studying and despised peanut butter with irrational passion.
I wanted something real.
Something deeper.
I wanted her trust.
The realization stunned me.
Because trust implied permanence.
Implied closeness.
Implied that somewhere inside me, I had already started imagining a future that included her.
“It’s nothing,” she said softly.
I narrowed my eyes immediately.
