It wasn't his heroics.
A green barrier to keep out the nightmares, shining proudly.
The wince in his words as she stitched him up, "At least no one got hurt."
It wasn't his power.
Fire, ruin. A world left wailing in his wake.
Cowering, hiding, unable and unwilling to show them.
It wasn't those eyes–
Toxic, poisonous green serving as two lone lights in the darkness.
Pure, shining blue that never lost their vibrancy, but teeming with emotion.
–his embrace–
Strong, stable, safe, and colder than the wind whipping past as they flew.
Warm, too loose, too tight, too friendly, too desperate.
–or his (adorable) dorkiness.
Endless streams of witty banter as he searches for a way to win.
Spluttering denial and confusion to the teasing interrupt his repairs of their weaponry.
No, it was the way he acted like she was his sun.
A meeting point, a constant regardless of if she was in sight.
Distant stars that will burn out before he ever sees their beauty,
and the mundane Earth that is home, that is his.