At eight he touched her cheek, but it was not until fifteen she touched his; and she had found it soft and white and cool, without flush or tenderness, but inviting, and kind, and beautiful. His gaze did not falter, but he succumbed to a brief surprise—a hesitation, almost, if Lord Sesshomaru ever hesitated—in the dripping honey of his eyes, dripping, dripping. Like rain. He was rain, certainly, creating his own ripples, filling his own ponds. Neither ice nor fire, neither cold nor hot, but a soft, tepid rain.
She beamed a smile, and unknowingly, she was his light—light that poured through the swollen storm clouds. Neither ice nor fire, neither cold nor hot, but a brilliant, spirited ray of light.
They did not speak.
He could smell petrichor in her hair, lemon on her breath, sweat on her skin. Each of her breaths echoed in his ears, and with it came the pounding of her pulse, the beating of her heart, the rush of blood in her veins. He noted his own change: His skin tingled, warmth blossoming at her touch.
She did not feel weightless nor shy, but grounded and certain; he did not feel enamored, nor vulnerable or weak, but powerful and alive. He would allow her touch, always, if it meant this feeling, and she would be near, always, as long as she lived.
He was her home.