The night is cold and dark, but she shines, almost as if she was designed solely for him. She sparkles and dances, like light reflecting and refracting, beckoning him nearer; her existence sings of promises that he hasn't fully articulated, but he feels them tugging in his soul.
He, with his star-studded sickness, gazes upon her form, lovingly, oh so lovingly, and he cannot help but smile even as she fixes him with a gaze full of contempt.
"You dare to try to contain a supernova."
It is a statement, an observation. She doesn't bother with questions, and he wouldn't give her an answer anyway.
"I dare. Where do you have to run? To other timelines, other universes? You will sleep and return to me eventually, little star," he says, and her scowl darkens.
Darkness does not suit her face, but Silas thinks he might like it more because of the juxtaposition. He likes that it leaves an impact.
"I prefer Samir," she says, tone frosty.
Now it is his turn to scowl.
"He should not be touching what is mine."
"I am not a thing to be owned, Silas."
He likes it when she says his name, even when it is laced with barely veiled scorn. Still, his displeasure is clear on his admittedly beautiful face.
"Then why do you return to me?"
"I don't do it by choice."
"But you still do it."
"Not by choice," she repeats, enunciating sharply.
An impasse.
She turns away from him, willful as ever. He threads his fingers through her hair, and while her expression remains placid, he catches the way her shoulders shudder in enjoyment. She's easy to read, despite being evasive with her affections.
"You aren't very honest, little star."
"You yap too much," she says, but she leans into his gentle touch.
