What he had with Io, though, was something else entirely different.
The sort of thing he hoped would last a very long time.
He let his fingers trace delicately over Io’s curves. He was already familiar with them, well acquainted with the freckles here and there, the birthmark right about Io’s left hip. There was a scar on his right thigh that according to Io he got when he fell from a rooftop; caught by the sun he found himself spending the day teetering on the edge ready to topple under a strong gust. By the time night broke, he was so bored out of his mind he missed the passing of the torch and wound up on the ground, scraping along a wrought iron fence as he went. Marks of his journey through life.
Theirs was such a long existence and already he had a decade or two on Io.
“Stay with me, Io. Just…stay with me.”
“Always,” he muttered, shifting around until he cuddled up in the crook of Cinder’s arm. It was quite the feat, done in the blink of an eye. 6