Slow mellowing heart in November breeze

"Neva? Wake up," Ishmael urges, his voice low but anxious.

His eyes are shadowed with concern, watching the way Neva whimpers—haunted by a terror she cannot escape.

"Neva." He pats her cheek lightly, rising on his elbow, the bed creaking under his shift. The frown between his brows deepens.

Her eyes are shut tight, her forehead furrowed, her face slack and fallen.

Large drops of tears slip down her temple, soaking into the white pillow beneath her long, disheveled locks.

Ishmael leans over her, brushing aside the moist curls sticking to her skin.

Little sobs rise from her chest. Her lips are pursed. She's drenched in sweat, trembling under the weight of the dream.

"Wake up, love," he whispers again.

But her eyelids clench harder.

He shakes her lightly, careful not to frighten her further, though the nightmare grips her still.

Her sobs grow harsher.

"Neva," he murmurs again, holding her shoulders, shaking her slightly more firmly. This time, she gasps awake, sharp and broken.

"Hey, are you okay?" He cradles her face in his palms.

Neva's blurred vision meets his gaze. Tears still stream without pause.

She swallows hard, her throat dry.

"What… what happened?" she whispers, her voice hoarse, her eyes swollen red.

He exhales softly, relief mixed with worry. "You were crying. Did you have a nightmare?" He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"I don't remember," she says, her hand lifting to touch the wet trails along her face.

More tears fall, unaware to her, and she frowns—for she cannot name the reason for this sharp gnawing in her chest.

Ishmael watches her. His eyes, dark and quiet, shimmer with unspoken weight. "It must have been a bad dream."

"Just a bad dream." He adds under his breath—barely audible, reassuring himself more than to her.

"Come here." He lays back and draws her close, her body curled against his chest. His arms fold around her carefully, his warmth gathering around her.

She lies still. Eyes wide, heart aroused, her thoughts race to wipe away the moisture from the window of her dream—now slowly fading.

Long is left of the cold night.

His chin rests on her head. His hand strokes her hair again and again, lulling her into silence, if not sleep.

A colourless night awaits—one where she won't stray too far, not into beautiful dreams nor terrifying ones.

But her mind remains frayed. Her mind remains frozen.

And she's threaded deeper into the web of wonder—for even her husband's embrace do so little to melt the cold encased within her.

---

The earthy scent of autumn mingles with the sweetness of apples and fig trees, eucalyptus leaves and damp soil—all whispering through the wind. The smell of rot lingers faintly, merging with dust and decay.

The late afternoon sun pours through the thin lattice of black and grey branches. Warm, hazy beams ripple through the swaying yellow and orange leaves, streaked with flecks of red.

Deep in the forest, the gurgling of a stream murmurs from somewhere close.

The breeze moves gently, lifting strands of Neva's loose hair across her face.

They slip past her cheek, floating a while, wishing to fly along—only to part in pain, for the soul still longs for the flesh.

She sits with her back pressed to Ishmael's chest, his own spine resting against the towering maple tree behind.

He holds her close, fingers gliding through her dark curls—slow and steady, lovingly rough.

Neva's eyes follow the dancing letters on white pages. Her breath is calm, her frame relaxed within his.

They are still. Hushed. Warm. Tangled.

She turns the page. The paper flutters lightly with the wind.

"Do you feel cold?" Ishmael's voice rumbles softly against her ear, breath warm on her skin.

Neva shakes her head. "I'm warm enough."

The coral-hued open front cardigan draped over her white dress traps the warmth of his arms, his body heat seeping through the fabric and into her bones.

He pulls her closer, impossibly close.

A red-and-black pleated blanket lies beneath them, and beside it, a wicker basket filled with unfinished pies, cake, and fruit.

He kisses the crown of her head and props his chin on her shoulder.

"Feels like we've gone back to when we were kids," he breathes, inhaling her scent.

Neva lifts her head, just enough to meet his gaze. "When we were kids?"

He hums, then leans in and kisses her. Her wide cocoa eyes lock with his. And enchanted, he kisses her again, slower this time.

His fingers thread through her hair. He lays soft kisses along the fair skin of her neck.

Neva reaches behind to touch his cheek, her eyes closing as she tilts her head, giving him more opening.

Her heart beginning to soften.

"You're like a dream," he murmurs, his lips brushing her jaw. "A dream I had every night after you left.

I still fear… that you're just an illusion."

He kisses her, deeper, hungrier—as if she were his only tether to life.

Neva pushes him back gently.

Her breath is uneven. Her cheeks blush rose. But her chest remains tight.

"Well, I'm truly here," she says, letting his arms pull her in again.

"And you'll never be able leave me again." His voice is firmer, his tone heavy with longing. "Tell me more about when we were children," Neva says, though her thoughts drift.

"You were mischievous," he chuckles. "Always causing trouble... but you were my kind and sweet girl."

He smiles at her.

She returns it faintly, heart stirred by the warmth in his gaze.

"You didn't tell me how Grandpa died," she asks.

"I will. In time. For now, you'll have to trust the fragments. Doctor's words—not mine."

He entwines their fingers. "We have time. All of it, ahead of us."

"Yes," Neva whispers.

"Have you decided on their names?" he asks, resting a hand on her swollen belly.

"Not yet. Have you?"

Before he can answer, his phone rings. The spell breaks.

"Let me take this," he says, already reaching for it.

She nods, eyes lingering on the sudden change in his expression.

His features tighten. His gaze narrows.

"Tell them to leave if it's not urgent," he snaps, then hangs up and tosses the phone aside.

"Is something up?"

"No."

Then the leaves rustle nearby—crisp, alert. Someone's approaching.

Ishmael stiffens.

"What's—" Neva begins, but a voice breaks through the trees.

"Hey! There you are!" a man calls, loud and unfamiliar.

Ishmael exhales in irritation.

Then grumbles a shorter man waving his phone in the air as he follows behind a taller figure. "The signal here's fucking crazy."

"Who are they?" Neva sits up straighter, her eyes flicking toward Ishmael. He watches her, already missing her warmth.

"None of significant," he mutters.

The chestnut-haired man closes his eyes, breathing deep. "What nice air."

"Scram," Ishmael snaps.

Jacob stares, feigning hurt. "Brother, how can you say that?"

Ishmael rolls his eyes.

Jacob smiles. His eyes trail toward Neva, seated quietly, lips pressed together.

"What a beauty," he murmurs.

"So she's the muse to die for?" says the man beside him—tall, slender, well-built, with dark hair and darker eyes.

Ishmael says nothing. His silence is enough.

Neva flinches as the man suddenly crouches, drops to all fours, and inches toward her.

"Lucas," Ishmael warns, voice like cold stone.

Lucas tilts his head, peering up at Neva. Her eyes widen.

"You really are a beauty worth me," he mutters.

He pulls back slowly. Ishmael's grim stare shadows over him.

Lucas grins.

"I'm just here for the food," he says, reaching for the picnic basket, his hands already exploring its contents.