“We Folk are fickle beings,” Cerulean says, his outline rippling over blades of grass. “You’re my exception. You always have been.” He clasps the sides of my face and leans in. “You’re my weakness, inspiring me to break my own rules. You’re my strength, granting me the fortitude to endure without you. Oh, but it’s a cruel paradox, yet there we are. You’re worth…” he sucks in a tremulous breath, “…every crack in my soul. You’re worth the loss and longing.”
