2025-07-19 - The Better to Hear You With

Once Damian was back on two legs, Maggie returned his water bottle and stripped out of his hoodie, tying the arms around her waist long enough to cool off a bit after the run, leaving her in the casual athleisure and sneakers she'd worn out to meet him in for lunch far earlier. By the time they're down at the docks for the ferry, Maggie is starting to catch her breath, and she's starting to feel the warmth of her muscles cool off. So much like on the ferry ride out to the Forbidden Forest, she's making use of the boat's railing to double as a barre as she's stretching post-run. Her bottle of tea and electrolyte drops is long empty, hooked to the hoodie still around her waist by a bow tied into the drawstrings of it so she finally has her hands free.

They'd talked about heavier topics to be discussed, at some point, but as Maggie is getting used to his actual out loud voice again after those hours he's spent speaking it straight to her brain, the topics stay light, wandering here and there about their days, their plans for the rest of the week, and whatever other randomness comes up. By the time their ferry has made it back to Crescent, she's stretched out the soreness, and the walk to the diner and then back to hers will be all the cool-down left she'll need about it.

As they're heading off the boat, her hand has found his again, fingers threading together as they head for the diner and order food to go. Maggie goes for a loaded veggie omelet with extra cheese, and she chooses fruit rather than the hash browns, but a waffle instead of the toast. She skips the syrup, but asks for jam and extra whipped cream. And she absolutely lets him carry the styrofoam boxes of his food and hers in that plastic bag back to her apartment after.

He knows the code to open her locks, but Maggie punches it in since he's got the food. She toes her sneakers off once she's inside, and tells the empty room, "Alexa, turn on the quiet night in routine." The lights over the kitchen island drawing space come on dim, as do the fairy lights around her patio doors, and a few lamps along the mantle of her fireplace dimly illuminate. It's a warmly glowing ambiance, but nothing overly bright or overhead harsh. It's followed with, "Alexa, play my 'Night In' playlist on Spotify." It's soft, mostly but not entirely accoustic, and an incredibly ecclectic mix of genres and artists tied together by some connection in Maggie's mind that may not translate to a thread that can be followed.

"Is food on the coffee table and sectional ok, or should I clear off my sketches?" Maggie isn't really a sit down at an actual table - or even stools at the counter kind of person most of the time. But she'd move the art if it made him happier. She's already heading for her fridge, and grabs both her spiced cold brew and the horchata. Breakfast for dinner means cold-brew to go with, at least in Maggie's world. "What's your poison for a post run hydration?" Sometimes it's so seamless slipping her life or hand into his that she forgets how many of those small every day details she's still learning about him.

When Damian is handed back his water bottle, he smiles at Maggie and nods in thanks. He was not dressed in layers, even though it was apparent he had been running, with sweat beading on his forehead and his shifting from wolf to human. It takes a lot out of a person, and he finishes the bottle of water he had brought, since he hadn't had access to it earlier. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he had burned a lot of energy and would need to replenish it soon, or he might pass out. He has had to learn this after his first shift, identifying what worked for him and what didn't.

This time, Damian does his stretching on the ferry as he hooks his bottle on himself. He has one of those bottles where you can strap it to your body. Arms go over his head as he stretches left and right. His legs get pulled under his butt one at a time, so he looks like a flamingo when he does that.

Damian is content to follow Maggie's lead once they get off the ferry and head to Nora's. When it is Damian's turn to order, he asks for the pancakes with butter and syrup on the side. Hashbrowns, fruit, sunny side eggs with toast. A quirked brow when Maggie hands the styrofoam boxes after the order is done. He would have offered, but was not given a choice when it was given to him.

He waits by Maggie's side when she punches in the code. He's not comfortable punching in her code. It isn't his place, and he respects her privacy. Looking down at Maggie's shoes as she toes them off, he does the same, moving to put the food down once he has fully entered. "Yeah, coffee table is fine." He puts the bag down and begins to take the items out of it. "Water, please."

Some day, Maggie hopes he'll get used to letting himself in, but, they've got time for that comfort level to build. With the lights on, the music soft, and food waiting... There's just something about him being in her space that leaves her feeling a lot more centered than she's used to feeling. She's always preferred her peace and her privacy, but. She actually finds herself missing him when he's back at his, or off working, or otherwise. She hadn't known he'd been missing until he'd been there, but now that he has, it's a little lonely when he's not.

Water is something Maggie can handle, but she makes her coffee first. A large, double-walled glass tumbler gets poured full of cold brew, pods of cardamom and cinnamon sticks and star anise floating inside. It's topped with a splash of horchata. The bamboo lid snaps on, and she drops in a silicone straw. She grabs her coffee and a second empty glass in one hand and then the pitcher of cold water from her fridge with her other hand, bumping the stainless door closed with her hip.

Bringing the drinks over to where he's unpacking their food, Maggie sits down the water and both glasses onto the wood-topped ottoman that serves as her coffee table, and she brushes a kiss to his cheek as she checks on the take-out, "Do I need to grab silverware, or did they tuck some into the bag?"

There is a shift in what Damian is doing as he watches Maggie assemble the cold brew. "I don't think I have ever seen coffee made that way." He says in her direction as the boxes get placed on the table. When asked about silverware, he produces plastic utensils as well as napkins. "Looks like they supplied it."

Once he is satisfied with how everything looks, he kneels at the table, not sitting on the settee. Likely something he does out of habit. Probably back at his apartment. Legs behind him as his butt sits on legs. He does lean some to accept the kiss. "Come eat." He also takes the glass of water from her and smiles at her. "Thank you."

"Happy to," Maggie tells him with a grin after he's thanked her for the water. And she doesn't need to be asked to come and eat, she's starving. She sits on the floor next to him, the thick pink rug soft and fuzzy, and the same place she eats a lot of her meals if she's not just standing at the kitchen counter about it. She takes a long drink from her coffee, and then offers him the cup if he wants to try it. "I love cold brew. Throw the grounds into the filter, add whatever spices sound good, and just let it soak until I get to it."

But the horchata, "When I was little-little and would want to have coffee with my mom and abuelita, Mami always fussed that I was too little. So when she wasn't around, abuelita would pour me a big cup of horchata and add in a spoonful of her coffee and tell me it was a latte when I was too little to know better." Maggie laughs. "So now, when I go to grab coffee, a little horchata makes it taste like home. I don't like it that way hot, it's a weird texture steamed. But in cold, it's perfect."

Maggie's first bite of food is a tiny taste of the waffle, and the amount of strawberry jam is almost sinful, but her only comment is, "Perfect." She sounds incredibly happy. But after that first taste, she goes for the protein and veggies first. "I could eat eggs almost every meal and not be mad about it. But they're weird when they get cold." She's adventurous with what she's willing to try, but, she's also almost ridiculously picky about the differences between the things she can tolerate without complaints versus the things she actually loves. And she tries to chase the good stuff every chance she gets.

A nudge to Maggie's shoulder once she settles next to Damian. He is trying to figure out what it is he wants to get into first. He does love his pancakes, but who could turn down potato? Not him. He starts with a bite of that first as he listens to Maggie explain her coffee habit. He shakes his head negatively when she offers him her cup. "Maybe tomorrow." He must be one of those people who limit their caffeine intake up to a specific time, and the time for caffeine has come and gone.

Smiling when he listens to the story she tells about her abuelita. "That was sweet of her to do. My brothers and I would sometimes go looking for an empty cup to see if our parents left any residue in their cups for us to have the last sip. Sometimes we were lucky and sometimes just out of luck." Smiling quietly at the memory. They were loved in his household.

"I do like horchata. I tend to drink the plain one. I think they call it vanilla?" He's not certain if that is what Maggie has. "I like eggs, but I have to be in the mood for them." He tells Maggie. "I don't like the way they smell." His sense of smell also has amplified now that he knows he can shift into different animals.

That nudge of her shoulder earns him a grin, Maggie's smile broad and warm as it reminds her of those flicks of his tail against her legs as they were running. She likes how he always reaches out for her even in those little, brief ways. When he shakes his head about the coffee, Maggie just sits down her cup so she's got one hand for her fork and the other to rest against his knee. She cuts a bite from her omelette with the side of her fork, and then has to give a few more swipes with the edge to sever the cheese that otherwise would be a massive pull of it threaded through the veggies inside. She eats as he's talking about his brothers.

Maggie never had siblings, and she's always wondered if that was a good thing or a sadness. "Do you still talk much with either of them? Are you close now that you're all grown?" She's trying to find that balance between wanting to know everything about him but not wanting to pry uncomfortably deep or fast about it. But she does tack one more question on that topic onto the end of those first two. "Do you think they'll ever come out here to visit here at the park?"

Damian might have been right about potatoes, but, with the waffle, Maggie didn't order them, she balanced out her carb-loaded dessert for later with all the veggies in her eggs, and the fruit subbed for hash-browns. She stabs a chunk of mango with her fork and savors it while he's asking about the horchata. "Abuelita was amazing. You would have loved her. She could be strict if it was warranted, but it was never her first instinct. She went a little heavy on her Saints and I don't think I ever saw her without her rosary in reach. But, her faith was rooted out of love. She wasn't pushy about it, she just wanted people to be safe and happy."

And it leads to Maggie's answer about the horchata. "I just make it from her recipe. It's easier than trying to find a brand that's tolerable. A carton of rice milk, a can of sweetened condensed, and a bunch of spice that I got too lazy to keep trying to get right, so. Now I just go with vanilla and almond extracts, a heavy dash of Penzey's pi spice, and enough each of the cinnamon and cardamom that it tastes right." She grins, "It sounds fancy, except it's the same way I season anything sweet. Cake. Cookies. Oatmeal. If it's not savory, that's what goes into it." There's a faint nod as he mentions the eggs. She files that fact away in her mind for future knowing.

"Yep. We have a brother chat." Damian pulls out his phone and shows her a group chat with his brothers, but doesn't show it to her for long, as he values his privacy and doesn't know what his brothers would think of him sharing that part about how they communicate. "I sometimes wonder if we would even still interact if we were not brothers. We are different from each other, but we do love each other. So there's that." He has to think about them visiting. "I don't know. California to here is expensive, and they both work, so it would also be a timing kind of thing."

Nodding at the talk of saints. "We believe in Buddhism." This is probably why Damian was okay with her talking about ghosts, as that is part of his belief.

"Sometimes those kinds of recipes are made out of love." Another smile for Maggie as he says that. Whenever there was a pause when he wasn't talking, Damian was busy eating. He was hungry. Taking a few minutes to drink from his water now and then.

Maggie glances at the phone, just long enough to notice that it's a group chat, and that it seems like the messages are pretty frequent. But she doesn't actually try to read any of what was written. She grins just a little bit, though, at how there was no hesitation in him to have shown her. When he says he's not sure if they would interact without being related, Maggie has to finish a bite of food before she can answer him. "I've never had siblings, so, I'm probably wrong, but..." She brushes her fingers along his knee as she says it. "I think that's all the more reason to be glad you're related to them, then. You've got that reason to keep getting the differences in opinions, and to enjoy the love that's there anyway." And she likes knowing there is love in his life.

When he mentions Buddhism, Maggie takes another bite of her breakfast for dinner, and considers what she knows of that faith with what she's been learning about him. When her mouth once more isn't full, she admits to him, "Before I came to Spellbound, I was pretty staunchly agnostic. But now..." Well. Now she's experienced a lot of things she never dreamed was possible. Why wouldn't that mean maybe other things she didn't believe in aren't true, too? "I'm not sure what I believe in now, or don't... But I know I'm not anywhere close to being ready to tell the universe anything about what it is or isn't, or what Gods might or might not have made it that way."

But when he mentions some recipes are made simply with love, Maggie nods, agreeing with that entirely. "I wish I'd been older when we lost her. Cooking was never something my mom ever really got into. I would love to have learned how abuelita managed to wrap her tamales. I've only tried them a handful of times, but, they always get water into them and never come out. And no matter where I try to buy them, some of them are better, objectiively, but. None of them taste like hers did."

There was love and misunderstanding in Damian's household. He doesn't get into it right now, but the relationship between his parents is probably strained, which is why he came all the way here from California. "I am the middle child. My older brother and I are six years apart. My younger brother and I are two years apart."

A small smile when he is informed that she is agnostic, but her views are slowly changing. "I figure if it makes a person happy and it keeps them grounded, who am I to judge what it is they practice. Because when this life is over, I imagine we all will be judged for it then." A slight shrug as he says this. "If we are bad the first time around, maybe we get a second chance in our rebirth." He does not delve into all of this in detail and keeps it vague.

He asks about the tamales, "Do you make that around Christmas? I had some friends who did that as that was part of their culture." California is a big melting pot, so it makes sense that he would at least be familiar with tamales and how they seem to be mostly made during the winter months.

"Really?" Maggie is surprised he was the middle brother. She knows it's all probably a lot of psuedo-science, and meaningless, but. There are so many stereotypes about oldest or youngest or middle. And most of the time, stereotypes are absolutely made to be broken. But she would not have guessed middle. "I absolutely would have thought you would be the oldest."

It adds to the questions Maggie has about his family. She knows there are moments that sound like they weren't good. But clearly, there are ones that weren't awful, too. And she hopes they're together long enough for her to hear some of those stories, some day. But she can only dive so deep at once, and the wolf has already called its dibs on today's deeper dives. Of course, while they're vaguely discussing religion, and faith, or at least belief... Maybe his wolf will need to share that dibs with her cards.

"Happy and grounded is rarely a bad thing," Maggie tells him softly. And she's really glad to know that differing faiths aren't a deal-breaker for him. But she does respect that he might not want her to involve him in the things she believes in, either, even if her belief isn't religious. "I'm not sure if you noticed..." Maggie takes a sip from her coffee to clear her throat. "But after that first night... I left an unopened deck on the nightstand of your side of the bed."

It's still sealed in its cellophane, a deck she'd picked up but not yet found an occasion to use. But the dark, matte black cards printed in holographic rainbow-hued silver of the custom printed Vena Obscura deck she'd fallen in love with but not found a reason to use yet just somehow fit him once she'd let him into her life. She knows he's seen the cards tattooed on her skin, slipped in between the petals of her watercolor flowers. She knows he's seen the decks on her shelves. She knows that he knows that one of them was her mother's. She's pretty sure he knows she uses her decks, based on how at least a few of them are never in the same places on her shelves from any day to day. But he may not know she reads for more than just herself.

"I haven't done a reading about you yet, or, I guess... More accurately, I haven't asked the cards anything about us." Maggie watches him as she's asking it, and she's set her fork down atop the few bites of egg she's still got left. "Some folks don't like the idea of it, and if you'd rather me not, I won't. Would it bother you if I ask the cards a few things? I can tell you after, or not, depending on how you feel about it all?" Maggie would like to do a reading or two, but not one that might include questions about him that doesn't respect the consent of his own choices.

But to Maggie, tarot is a part of her family and its history, even if it's not a piece of actual culture the way the tamales he had asked about are. "Just a little before, for the Feast of Our Lady Guadalupe. Some families do them all the way until Three Kings Day, but we only had them for the Feast. Well. And for birthdays. Abuelita never made the red and green ones, though. She was more a fish and mole kind of woman, with a huge, steaming bowl of pozole to dip them into."

Damian laughs when Maggie pegs him as the oldest of his brothers. “No, not the case. Their names are Nathan and Ryan.”
He pauses for a moment, then adds, “It’s pretty common — when Asian families come to America, they’ll give their kids American names, and the original name ends up as the middle name. Middle names aren’t a thing in most Asian cultures.”
“My original name is Arthit,” he explains. “But once I was old enough to start school, it was just easier to use a name that was easier on English-speaking tongues.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“I did see the cards,” he says, referring to the tarot deck. To him, they looked like fancy playing cards. He doesn’t have much knowledge about tarot and doesn’t know what they entail. He’s pretty indifferent about it all, personally. “As long as you don’t invoke evil spirits, I’m game,” he says with a teasing smile. “If it is that important to you.”

He respects that they believe differently, and that’s okay. A hand moves to his stomach as he adds, “You’re making me hungry with all this talk of mole and pozole, and I’m only halfway through dinner.” He gestures toward the Styrofoam container still holding his food.

Nathan, Damian, and Ryan. Maggie files all of those away. But it's his now middle name that she says out loud. "Arthit." Her pronunciation is far from perfect, but she tries, and she asks him after, "Say it again?" It's something more than worth it to her to learn how to say the right ways. And she also asks after, "Regardless of hard or of easy... What name do you like being called?" And there are a lot of answers he might choose to give to that. Goodness knows Maggie has already given him plenty of them. But if there's a preference? That changes a lot of habits.

"I can't promise anything about the spirits," Maggie laughs. "But so far, the only one I've ever pulled from any decks was my mom." But there is a bit of a nod as he mentions it's ok, if it's important to her. "I never actually read her deck that night, after she was here. I still pull a card from mine each day, because I don't think that's a habit I'm ever going to lose. But I stopped pulling spreads once I was here on the islands. The world started screaming a little too loudly, and I needed to drown it out in my music instead of trying to listen closer." He's heard a little of that.

"But I think I maybe miss trying to listen," Maggie tells him softly. "Even if it's just to my own intuitions after laying all of it out. I miss those moments of checking in with myself." She probably wouldn't say this out loud to anyone else in the world. She hasn't said it yet to herself. But she says it to him. "I'm still not fully sure about all the magic and its changes. But I like the me that's learning how to trust someone other than just myself. I think it's time to figure out if I can do both at once." Maggie is doing her damnedest to run towards him rather than away. But she wants to be able to do that while still running towards herself, too.

When he says she's already making him hungry again, Maggie laughs, shaking her head his way. "Sorry, but, unless you want half a waffle," there's no way she can finish the entire thing. "You're going to be stuck with the snacks in the pantry, or we're going to have to get one of the courriers to grab us something from the park. Best I can make you is a sandwich. Abuelita took those secrets with her long before I got old enough to have wished I'd asked her." Maggie actually adds after, sounding a bit awed, "But if I see her again? I'm absolutely finding out."

Damian’s smile deepens when Maggie says his Thai name aloud, even if her pronunciation isn’t perfect. It means something to him that she makes an effort. He repeats it gently, slower this time so that she can hear the proper intonation: “Ar-thít.” There’s a subtle lift in the second syllable.

He watches her for a beat, thoughtful, before answering her more personal question. “I like Damian. It’s the name I chose when I was a kid, and I’ve grown into it. It helped me feel like I fit better.” But then, more softly, “But Arthit… It’s still part of me. So if you want to use it sometimes, I won’t mind. Might even like it.”

He listens as Maggie talks about her mom, her cards, her pause in pulling spreads, her switch to music to drown out the noise of the world. He doesn’t interrupt. He hears her. “You don’t have to choose,” he says eventually, reaching across the small distance between them to brush his fingers against hers. “You can listen inward and reach outward at the same time. That’s not splitting yourself. That’s being whole.” His thumb lingers against her hand. “I don’t know what I think of magic yet, either."

Then, with a smirk tugging at his lips as she mentions food again, he says, “Half a waffle sounds like a fair trade for getting to hear your abuelita’s secrets one day. Especially if you’re promising to hunt her down for answers in the spirit world, that’s some dedication.”

"Arthit." Maggie gets it right that time, even that soft little lilt at the end of it. And she listens as he talks about what he likes to be called, but also what he might not also mind sometimes, too. "Ok, then, Damian Arthit." She double names it, but it's done with so much affection there's no chance of it sounding like anything remotely close to trouble. "But I'm still going to call you Sunshine as often as you let me get away with it." Her fingers brush over his knee. "At least as long as you keep being the brightest parts of my days."

When his hand finds hers, Maggie leans a little closer and brushes a kiss at his bicep, just beneath the sleeve of his tee shirt. It's salty with sweat, but she doesn't seem to care. And she listens to his opinions on the differences between split or whole. She really hopes he's right. "I've really never tried the reaching outwards part before." But with her hand still there at his leg, it's not hard to admit, "But so far, I'm really liking the things I've gotten my hands on now that I'm making an effort to change that."

Using her free hand, Maggie picks her fork back up again, and she starts working on the rest of her omelet as he smirks at her about her grand-mother's secrets. "I've actually never tried to go looking for any of the ghosts I've seen. They've always found me about it instead." She takes another bite and then pauses to chew and swallow. "I'm not sure I'd want to go looking. If someone is resting at peace, I'd rather leave them that way. But..." Maggie picks up the last bite of eggs and cheese and veggies as she's finishing that thought. "If she just kind of appears like Mami did? I know this time all the things I wish I would have asked." And then that last bite disappears into her mouth, leaving only that waffle she's promised him she'll share.

Damian’s expression softens when she says his name like that*Arthit* and for a second, he forgets he ever thought of it as awkward or hard to say. There’s a particular quiet pride that flickers in his eyes at hearing it spoken with care. But it’s that double-name*Damian Arthit* that makes his smile turn crooked.

“I think you just made that sound like a blessing,” he murmurs, a little surprised by how much he likes hearing it from her. “I’ll allow it. Sunshine too, if you must.” His hand squeezes hers just slightly. “But only if I get to call you Trouble right back. Or maybe Spark.”

When she kisses his arm like that, he exhales a slow, quiet breath. He doesn’t pull away. He leans in. Not a full-body lean. Her touch on his leg, her easy affection. It’s also doing things to his appetite, and not just for the food. Her comment about reaching outward earns a low, amused hum from him. “I’d say your hands have pretty good aim, then.” His tone’s warm, teasing, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity underneath. “You’re not the only one who likes where they landed.”

He lets her eat, but he watches her while she does. There’s something thoughtful in his gaze as she talks about ghosts and appearances, and what she’d ask if her grandmother showed up again. Damian isn’t sure what he believes when it comes to spirits, but he knows the truth when he hears it. And Maggie’s got plenty of that tucked behind her eyes. “If she comes back,” he says after a moment, “I hope she does it when you’re ready. Not just to prove something, but… to talk. To finish the conversation.”

His hand shifts slightly, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “I don’t think you’d disturb her rest by wanting to understand her better. That doesn’t feel like the kind of thing ghosts get mad about. Especially not abuelas.” A faint smirk. “They come back because they love us too damn much to stay gone.”

Then he gestures to the remains of her plate. “Now, about that waffle. I’ve been very patient, Maggie Trouble Sunshine Spark, but I was promised a bite.” His eyes are bright with mischief now. “And I’m invoking rights of shared meals and mutual hunger.”

Maggie pays attention to taking care of the things that are hers. Getting a name right seems like the very least of what she can do. It's a vital piece of him and of who he his, both the one he chose and the one he was gifted. And as his smile goes a little crooked and asymmetrical, there's that feeling of effervescence in her veins.

It felt like a blessing? "Good." She tucks her thumb between her palm and his as he's squeezing her hand, drawing little patterns against his skin as she brushes over him. "You deserve to have your praises sung, Sunshine, you're too wonderful not to hear about it. As much of a blessing as you are, it's good you get to feel it time to time."

When he's listing off those names, she's curious and asks, "Why Spark?" But she's willing to answer to it even unknown. Her next words are even cheesier than her omelette was, and that's honestly saying a lot about the levels of cheese factor. But Maggie means it. "Sunshine. I'll answer to almost anything at all as long as you're calling me yours." But. She's now got his middle name in his arsenel, and it seems only fair to return him the same ammunition. "My whole name is actually Margaret. Margaret Amelia."

She sighs as he talks about the aim of her hands, a soft breath of air, happy and content as that soft hum falls from his throat and he admits a lot of truth wrapped in that affectionate tease. "Good," she murmurs back, her hand still tangled up in his. "Because I'm pretty sure I don't want to have to let go."

Maggie digs out a bite of her waffle, each little square smeared completely full of jam, the clouds of whipped cream on top mostly disappeared and soaked in after having melted from the heat and time it's been sitting. It's exactly how she likes them best. She enjoys the 'dessert' she'd saved for last while he talks about the chances to see her family. "I don't know how it works or where they come from. It's so much weirder seeing an actual ghost." Of all the weird she sees, the ghosts are the weirdest.

"Touching an object, or finding a memory from a place startles me sometimes, the chance to know things about history that I shouldn't, or that should have been forgotten over time. But it doesn't feel like I'm interrupting anything when I see or feel them. Ghosts being actual people though?" Maggie frowns a little and tries to figure out how to explain it.

"I'm glad that if they're out there, some of us can see and hear them, try to help. But it makes me wonder about the world away from here, and all the implications. I don't know. Before Spellbound..." Maggie sits down her fork to pick up her coffee, taking a sip before she continues, "I always just thought dying was the over of it all. We are, then we aren't. And that was just the end of all of it. Knowing we're not just gone after... I kind of hate thinking too much about it."

But with her grandmother? Maggie nods. "If she's out there somewhere, and she figures out I can see or hear her now... She'd be right here fussing immediately. But I hope she was right. As much as I'd love to ask all those questions, I hope she's found her saints and her peace. If not, though?" She brushes her fingers up and down the lengths of his as his touch brushes over her wrist. "I'd tell her about you. She'd 'told you so' me into oblivion, but. I think it would make her happy."

He asks about that promised waffle, though, and Maggie's got one bite left of the first quarter of it. She trades her coffee for her fork and cuts that piece off before holding it up to his mouth to feed it to him. The sparkle in her coal-hued eyes matches his. "Patience is a virtue, Damian Arthit. And it's one I didn't know you had any. I guess I should reward that good behavior after all." And then, even though she'd promised only half, she slides the container with the other three-quarters of it his way.

Damian watches her. The way she says his name, Sunshine, Damian Arthit, all of it has his pulse racing beneath her fingers. Her thumb tucked into his palm, that quiet tracing against his skin… It’s enough to undo even the most stoic parts of him.

And when she tells him he deserves to have his praises sung? He swallows hard before answering. “I didn’t think I did. Not for a long time,” he says quietly. “But you… You make it hard to keep believing that.” Then she’s asking about Spark, and that crooked grin returns, softer now. “Because you start things. You light fires. You get under people’s skin, and suddenly they’re burning to be better, different, to stay in your orbit.” He shifts his hand so their fingers are laced now, his palm fitting snug against hers. “Even when you don’t mean to, you change everything.” The cheesiness of her answer doesn’t make him laugh; it makes him look. That stillness takes him for a second, his gaze locked on hers. Her saying she’ll answer to anything, so long as he’s the one calling her… no part of him takes that lightly. “Then I’ll make sure I call you mine as often as you need to hear it.” He can't believe he just said that. And Margaret Amelia? His brows lift. “Maggie Trouble Spark Sunshine Margaret Amelia. You’re just handing me all the weapons, huh?” He chuckles, but he doesn’t tease hard. “I like knowing the names that made you. You wear them better than anyone ever could.” When she says she doesn’t want to let go, his hand tightens briefly on hers, and he leans in to press a warm, solid kiss to the side of her head. He listens closely when she talks about the ghosts and her fear around them, not the fear of the dead themselves, but of what it means. That there's more after. Maybe it’s not the end.

Damian was quiet for a long moment after her coffee break. Then, slowly, he says, “I think… maybe it only feels like a bad thing when we think the people we love didn’t get to rest.” His voice is low, thoughtful. “But if someone’s still around because they chose to stay for someone they love? I don’t think that’s hell. I think that’s… unfinished kindness.” He nods a little at her hopes for her grandmother. “If she’s found her saints, I hope they’re keeping her warm and full. But if she does come back to check on you… I hope she gets to see you like this. Open. Brave. Choosing to love anyway.” He nudges his knee against hers gently. “She wouldn’t just be proud. She’d be relieved.”

And then the waffle. He laughs when she calls him out for his lack of patience, leaning forward obediently to let her feed him that last bite from the first piece. He closes his mouth over the fork.“I think that may have been the best damn waffle I’ve ever had,” he says around the bite.

His hand covers hers as she finishes pushing the rest of the waffles across the table. “Are you sure?” he asks, but he’s already lifting his fork like he knows the answer. “Because if you keep feeding me like this, you’re going to make it real hard for me not to fall harder every damn day.” A bite. A pause. Then he points his fork at her. “Also, you just bribed me with food, so you can do whatever you want with your cards tonight. Pull a spread. Ask your questions. I’ll be right there next to you when you do.”

When he looks at her like that... Maggie feels so light beneath the weight of his gaze it's like she's forgotten that gravity exists as something meant to hold her down... It's just the magnetic pull that instead draws her in.

He tells her that he didn't think he was worthy of the praises, or at least that he didn't think he was once upon a time. "I'm so glad." Not that once upon a time he didn't believe it, but because now... It's getting harder for him to not recognize it. "I'm not sure how it took you this long to see it in yourself, my Sunniest of Days. But I'll hold up that mirror to reflect it back to you as long as it takes for you to start seeing just how beautifully you shine."

When he starts explaining Spark, she uses her free hand to pick up her coffee again. She sips at the cool, spiced sweetness, letting it slowly wash away the meal. He says she does that for people, but she's pretty certain she might only do that for him. She's not going to correct that, though. As long as he wants to stay in her orbit? Maggie is used to friends coming and going. She's hoping to build deeper nets of friends here as opposed to her usual wider nets. So as long as he's choosing to stay, she can live with the rest as it does or doesn't come.

Maggie was not expecting he way he looks at her as that deep, rich, earthy brown of his eyes find her glittering coal-hued gaze. It pins and anchors her in ways that make her glad she gave him the rest of that waffle, because if she'd tried eating her entire meal, her stomach flipping beneath the weight of that gaze could be dangerous. She sits her cup back down on the table so that the way it makes her fingers tremble isn't visible. But it doesn't really keep him from noticing it in the ones his hand is holding onto.

He'll make sure Maggie hears she's his as often as she needs to. Those words catch a missed breath in her chest. She swallows hard and tries to return it back to banter, but that thread of sincerity can't be missed. It's too true to her not to have that come through. "If that makes your voice go hoarse, just remember you're the one that chose to make that promise." She can't help the soft fall of laughter when he says she's handing him all the weapons, though.

"Sunshine. You've had all the cheat codes since we first started this." And he has. Every single unfair advantage that gets someone in beneath Maggie's skin just as dark and indelible as a tattoo are things he's been finding all on his own from the very beginning. And it absolutely terrifies her. But it keeps pulling her back for more. And that kiss to her temple has the softest sigh spilling from her lips about it, those head kisses yet another of those cheat codes she hasn't needed to give him for the achievements to be unlocked anyway.

Maggie nods as he talks about some of what might pull people back for reasons that are good rather than miserable. She really, really, really hopes he's right. "When abuelita died, mami tried to explain why it hurt so much was that grief is just love with nowhere to go. So maybe, at least for some of them... Maybe ghosts are just a little bit the same?" Not all of them. Maggie isn't naieve enough to know some of the anger or fear or other things she's seen in spirits are anything but love. But the visit with her mother had been a rare and shining gift. So maybe, at least for some of them, it really is the love that remains.

The rest of what he says about her grandmother? The things he thinks she would see, or feel about it? Maggie doesn't go there. He nudges her with his knee, and she leans in a bit closer to his side. But she doesn't answer those words out loud. Instead, she lets him tell her how good the waffle is, and she grins about it. "I tried to tell you. But you insisted on pancakes. Waffles and their squares for jam holding are always superior." And when he asks if she's sure about the rest of it, she nods. She's had enough, and she's more than happy to share the rest. "They don't reheat well. Hot jam is weird. Eat the rest while it's still worth it." She can think of worse things than him tasting like waffles next time she kisses him.

Maggie wants him to keep falling harder for her every day. The way she keeps falling for him? It's really only fair for him to return the favor. He offers to let her read his cards, and he'll keep her company while she does it. And she takes him up on it, just not tonight. "Give me some time to get reacquainted with mine, first?" Maggie hasn't pulled a full spread since she got to Spellbound. "And we both need showers. And I was promised there would be belly rubs." Tonight is pretty booked, because they just ran a good dozen miles, and at some point sleep is going to find them, too. "I think you work tomorrow, but I'm off. I'll get some chores done and errands run while you're working, and you can grab something for dinner to bring back after? We can ask the universe what it thinks about all this then, unless you've already got other plans?"

But. Before they ask the universe about all of this... Maggie backtracks to the things he said earlier that she hadn't commented about. If she is going to ask the tarot decks about all of this... She wants to know his thoughts on it first. It's still so early. It's ridiculously new. But sometimes it feels like he's known her forever. So she asks anyway. "You said my grandmother would think I'm open and brave. That I'm choosing to love anyway..." It's absolutely not a word she's in any way, shape, nor form ready to be using. But it's one she wouldn't mind intentionally trying to build towards. "Damian Arthit... Is that what we're trying to do here?"

Damian watches her as she talks, as she lets every soft word and smile and tremble of her fingers settle between them.
When she reflects his sunshine right back at him, that crooked grin of his softens. “Then I guess I better start liking what I see in the mirror,” he says, gently, thumb brushing the back of her hand where it still traces his skin. “If it means I get to keep seeing you standing behind me.”

When she offers her name, Margaret Amelia, and tells him he has the cheat codes, he can’t help it but his smile deepens at the corners, his head dipping for just a second. “Margaret Amelia,” he says back softly. Then, his tone turns teasing again. “That’s such a serious name for someone who makes the sky feel a little more like summer.” His knee brushes against hers again.

When she tells him about grief being love with nowhere to go, he nods slowly, eyes flickering down to where their hands are laced together. “I think your abuelita was right. Maybe that’s why some of them hang on.” He glances up at her again. “Maybe they just… don’t want to stop loving. Even if it hurts.”

He makes a playfully wounded sound and grins with that boyish, too-charming smirk. “Alright, alright, I concede. You were right. Waffles are the superior vessel for sugary excess. I’ll sing your praises with every bite.” He picks up the rest, following her advice, but only after whispering, “Farewell, pancake supremacy…” He is still going to pick pancakes over waffles; he is just going to let her win at this for the moment.

She asks him that question about what they’re doing here, about love, and her voice shifts in that tiny but seismic way, and he sets the fork down. He looks at her for a long, steady moment. No teasing now. No playful deflection. Just him, open and honest. Damian lets the silence sit between them a breath or two longer before speaking, thumb still brushing across the side of her hand. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but full of certainty. “I think that’s what I’m trying to do here.” His thumb is still holding her hand a little tighter. “Not rushing it. Not forcing anything. But… I want to build something that lasts. Something that doesn’t scare me into running when it starts feeling real.” His eyes don’t leave hers. “And with you? It already feels more real than anything I’ve tried before.” Then, a faint, softer smile appears, and he continues speaking. “I don’t know where it’s going yet. But if it ends up being love, Maggie… I want it to be the kind we grow into. Together.” He leans in just enough to press a kiss to her cheek, near the corner of her mouth. “So yeah. That’s what I’m trying to do.” He smiles again, a little crooked and a lot sincere. “If you’ll keep letting me.”

The remnants of her waffle have been passed over. Maggie has finished the last sips of her coffee. Her hand closest to him is held, but the other is free. His knee bumps to hers again, and Maggie shifts how she's sitting. Moving from cross-legged to instead curl both her knees towards him, her bare feet tucked beneath her opposite hip, her legs resting against his thigh. He tells her he'll look in that mirror if it means she's right there behind him, and she drags the hand she's holding to her knee, her free hand finding his fingers as her other hand untangles from within his grasp.

After, Maggie wraps that arm around his waist, leaning in to press another kiss to his arm, murmuring against his skin, "I swear to everything, Sunshine... You keep saying things like that and I'm going to end up in your lap before you're done with my waffle..." Moments like this the draw to him is so electrically magnetic it's nearly impossible not to just fully and all out throw herself at him. But she at least tries to at least let him finish food first.

He full names her, and Maggie absolutely feels like she's in the deepest trouble of her life. But it's the kind of trouble she wants to let him drag her into. It's not the kind of trouble that's going to get her locked up, but it's without a singular doubt the kind of trouble that has her locked down. "I can't be the one turning the skies to summer, Sunshine. Not when you're the one always dawning such bright and sunny Days."

As that smirk spreads through his smile the knees draped against his lap go a little watery. He talks about what might make someone hang around after death just after they'd talked about reaching out and hanging on while alive. And Maggie has already admitted just how right she hopes he is. So rather than repeat that... "If one of those cryptids eat me one of these days while I'm trying to hug them? If I can figure out how from wherever or whatever comes next? I'd come back to see you first thing."

He admits she was right about the waffles, and they'll have to bury and eulogize the pancake preference later. Even if she will still order him those flat discs next time she's picking them up breakfast carbs and she's surprising him so has to guess about which he actually might want. The desire in her voice is clear as she teases him back about it. "You can sing my waffle praises if you really wanna, but. I like you singing my name and praises for other reasons a whole lot more."

As soon as he's sitting his fork down, though? As his gaze turns heavy and serious, as that full and undivided attention lands on her... Maggie's quiet, and her eyes watch only his. Her pulse speeds, but her breath goes a little shallow. Her heart ends up in her throat. His answer terrifies her, even though it's exactly what that most fragile, vulnerable seed hidden behind all her walls wanted to hear. He tells her yes, and she's not sure if it tilts her whole world off its axis, or if it just finally flips her right side up, reorienting her straight to where she's always been meant to be.

Her nod as he says he's not rushing it is empathic. Maggie is falling hard, fast, uncontrollably. It's speeding at her like a freight train. But as deep as she wants to dive in, it feels too important to hurry, to not build foundations strong and firm so it won't all collapse down atop them, no matter how deeply down they may have landed all tangled up together. He's worth investing that time into doing it right. They are worth investing the time into doing it right.

Maggie knows exactly what he means when he says just how truly real this feels. She's never known anything like this before, anything that scares her in ways that leave her running to instead of running from. When he says he doesn't know where it's going, she nods again. She doesn't know, either, but she really wants to put in the work with him to find out. He kisses her there at the corner of her mouth, and it would be really easy to turn her head, to turn this into something purely physical. But she doesn't, not immediately. Instead, she nods all over again. "I'll keep letting you as long as you want to keep trying about it." And she's clearly willing to try alongside him. "Whatever it is that this is... I don't have words for it yet." And as new as it is, that's a good thing. "But I'm really liking it. I'm falling harder than I knew I could, Damian Arthit Sunshine. And I'm hoping you'll let me it you for a long ass time."

When Maggie curls her knees in toward Damian and leans in with her kiss to his arm, his free hand slides instinctively around her waist, fingers pressing into the small of her back. Her teasing threat about ending up in his lap earns a low, warm sound in his chest, his smile tilting a little slower this time. “I wouldn’t complain,” he murmurs, and his voice is a notch rougher. “But I’m gonna need to clear this table if you keep talking like that, Margaret Amelia.” He leans in again, brushing his nose just barely against her temple.

When she tells him she’d come back for him, he lets out a soft laugh. He listens when she says she doesn’t have the words yet. He doesn’t rush her to say more. Doesn’t try to define it for her. His hand moves slowly over her back, and he presses his forehead against hers, eyes closing for just a moment as he breathes in her nearness. “You don’t need the words yet,” he tells her softly. “Whatever this is… It’s already speaking for itself. Loud and clear. Fall as hard as you want to,” Damian says. “I’ll be right here to catch you.” He squeezes her gently once more, then leans in this time not for her temple, but for her lips. The kiss is unhurried and full. Mumbling as the kiss breaks, "Now about those belly rubs?"

His arm wraps around her and Maggie curls in just that touch closer. Even though this has clearly grown into something with the intention of being serious... Even though the emotions and strings and effort of it is something they've promised to work on together... Even if this is something they're hoping to find a way to make last... All of it started from the physical connection, and every touch and kiss has been almost painfully electric. Maggie has been literally unable to get enough.

So when he's drawn her in, and he's murmuring that reply about no complaints? Maggie's lashes flutter. His lips and breath and mouth find her temple and the softest whimper falls from her throat, the breath of it warm against the stubble of his jaw. And as he mentions needing to clear off that table... Her fingers curl in against his back. Clearly, would have absolutely no complaints about it if he did. She actually bites down on her lower lip to shut her up so she won't interrupt him by suggesting he should do just that.

His words soothe the nerves in her, and somehow excite them, too. Calm assurance weaves with anticipation and want, knowing that whatever this is might be new and terrifying, but that she has no reason to let it scare her. He's there to catch her, and to make sure it doesn't hurt her as they land. And even if some day it ends up being her undoing... Maggie trusts him to do that with everything in her.

When his head tilts down to rest against hers, Maggie's own eyes close, and she makes good on that earlier 'threat' she had made. With him still there on his knees, she twists her shoulders and a hip, turning as she lifts a knee. And when she's settled, she manages to be straddling his lap, sitting atop his thighs. It makes it so much easier when that head tilt she's come to know means he's about to kiss her follows through and finds her lips. It's slow, and deep, and it does nothing to help change her mind about that table needing to be cleared off.

What does change her mind? When he asks Maggie about those belly rubs? Her grin grows bright and giddy with excitement as she nods. She looks just a little bit like a kid on Christmas who asked for a puppy and spots a box full of air holes wiggling under the tree. She even shimmies her hips back so she's closer to his knees, back against the ottoman, rather than directly atop his thighs now so that she can have the chance to do just that. "Yes, absolutely, please!" They can clear off her coffee table later, after.

Damian laughs as Maggie settles herself across his lap and makes that little Christmas-morning face at the mention of belly rubs. And as her weight shifts, knees pressing to either side of him, her hips wiggling back with clear intention, his hands find her waist with a steadiness. He kisses her one more time, slower this time, savoring it. And then his mouth curves into a smirk against hers, mischief dancing in his eyes as he pulls back just enough to say. "Alright, Spark. I hope you're ready to fulfill that promise. 'Cause you’re about to have a whole lot of floof to deal with."

He shifts his hands from her waist to her hips gently, guiding her off his lap, just enough to give himself space. Then Damian exhales once, slowly. His fingers skim up her thighs as he pulls back, and his voice dips softer with that knowing, crooked smile. "Don’t be scared if I wag too hard and knock something over. It’s not my fault I’ve got the best view in the world now."
And with that, he eases to the side, crouching just slightly on the plush rug in front of her, bracing his palms against it. His shoulders roll back. His eyes close.

There’s no smoke. No flash of light. Just a smooth, bone-deep ripple through his form and then, with a soft thud of heavy paws, the black wolf is there. Massive. Lush-furred. Dark brown eyes, bright and intelligent, meet hers, that same teasing glint unmistakable. His tail gives a slow, lazy wag behind him.

<<Okay, Spark. You're up. Let’s see if those hands are as magical as you claim.>> The wolf stretches out in a deliberate sprawl right across her living room rug, twisting with a thump and a huff of air until he’s flopped onto his back, paws half-curled and belly presented. His ears twitch with anticipation.

Maggie savors that next kiss just as fully as the last. She's pretty sure that if all the future ones are even half this good, she could keep letting him kiss her for a very, very long time to come. And as it breaks, her hand lifts to his face, tucking back a bit of his hair from off his forehead. His hands find her curves, gripping at her waist, and then her hips as she gently extricates himself from the rest of the way out from under her.

But when he crouches, Maggie doesn't watch while he shifts. She turns and picks up his water glass, swallowing the last sip of it as he moves from human back to wolf. She's seen him make that change already while they were running. She's fairly sure that the privacy he'd said he wanted doesn't extend to her, at least not fully. But she gives him that single moment of it, that brief change between her man to her wolf. She laughs as he warns her about his tail. "There's very little I own that can't be replaced, Sunshine. If it means you're happy? I'm not going to complain." Except maybe her cello. But its case is pretty damned sturdy.

When she hears his voice not in her ears but in her mind, that's when Maggie looks back at him. She's not at all surprised by his size. He's almost as tall as she is in wolf form, when he's standing and running rather than flopped on his back. And he definitely outweighs her. Wolves are massive. And when she turns back to see he's sprawled himself belly up? There's a moment when it hits her what a vulnerable position that is, how unnatural it is for a predator to show soft belly. And while he might be the wolf? Maggie is the one who pounces.

Sitting still on her knees, Maggie springs forward, sprawling out on her stomach, stretched out across the soft, thick softness of her rug. It drapes her shoulder across one of his front legs as her cheek rests on his neck, just beneath his fuzzy chin. And her left arm stretches out and along his stomach, her fingers into and through the thick, soft, warm fur. Her manicured nails scritch along his skin at the roots of it. "You're so much warmer like this than I'd imagined..." Not to mention softer. "By the time we get the first snow this year, I can't promise I'm not going to be begging for a fur blanket some nights..."

The moment Maggie launches herself forward with that sudden, soft sprawl across the rug, Damian lets out a deep, surprised huff, a sharp exhale from his wolf lungs that could easily be mistaken for a startled chuckle. His tail thuds once on the floor, then again, a slow, pleased rhythm, betraying just how delighted he is with this turn of events. She lands half on him, warm and gentle and utterly unafraid, her cheek resting in the thick ruff of fur just under his chin. His head tilts, and he shifts just a little to nuzzle the top of her hair with his muzzle. A low, rumbly mmrrrrr of contentment vibrates from his chest, echoing.

Her nails drag along the roots of his fur, and Damian nearly melts. His back leg gives a very undignified kick, a canine twitch of bliss, and he flops his head sideways so that his nose brushes against the underside of her jaw, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of her skin. <<Careful. Keep that up, and I will start making whimpering sounds. And you’ll never be able to convince anyone I’m a fearsome apex predator again.>>

The tail thuds again.

<<Also, that fur blanket idea? Approved. You say the word, and this overgrown throw pillow is yours on demand. First snowfall, second, hell, you say "I'm cold" and I’ll be there. No coat required.>>

<<No one’s ever touched me like this before. As if they knew I was still the same person.>> His big head shifts slightly to rest beside hers, their cheeks nearly pressed together now, and one paw lifts slowly and lazily to lay over her forearm, anchoring her right there as though to say, stay.

<<So if you're offering belly rubs, Spark…>> A soft wolf-sigh, the mental version of a smile brushing along her thoughts. <<You better believe I’m soaking up every second.>>

Maggie doesn't care about any of the warnings Damian gives. None of them sound like actual complaints, and his foot kicks, his tail wags, and he rumbles so sweetly it's almost like her wolf knows how to purr. He nestles his muzzle into the sweat-damp curls of her hair, and she shifts just enough in how she's draped herself against him that she can rub her other hand along the sleek, short fur of his ear. The hand scritching through the fur of his stomach and the skin where it roots continues to graze her nails over every inch her arm can stretch and move to reach.

"Be as happy as you want to be, Sunshine." Maggie certainly sounds about as content as he's ever heard her. "You already promised you're not going to hurt me, Dearheart. That kind of ruins that whole apex predatory vibe anyway." At least in terms of how she can see him. "But your secrets are safe with me. No one else has to know you're not the biggest, baddest, most ferocious beast they've ever seen."

He knows already how often she runs cold, even in the balmy heat of summer. Her first winter in Michigan is going to be intense. "You make promises like that, those two feet of yours may just be four paws from Halloween straight through until March." But if he wants to stay close enough to keep her warm, human or wolf... Clearly, she has absolutely no complaints.

But when he says no one has ever treated him like he's still the same, her heart breaks just the smallest bit. The hand at his ear slips lower, her palm cradling the edge of his muzzle where it softens into the side of his softly fuzzy face. "Maybe you just have to trust them enough to let them see you, and hear you in both ways? Because I can't imagine not being able to recognize the warmth of you, your strength and your courage, your intensity and your courage, your kindness and protective streaks, but more than anything... Your gentleness and your joy." Man or wolf, it's the same heart, the same spirit, the same mind. She feels like she would see him through absolutely any form.

The weight of his paw rests heavy atop her, and she shifts in to nestle and cuddle in even closer. And she's more than happy to let him soak up as many seconds of touch and attention as the night and her ability to stay awake through it let her. She'll spoil him as best as she's able. And after a few minutes, she murmurs soft as a whisper, "I'm not sure I've ever thought I'd get this lucky in my life."