Alias couldn't find his voice. His mind was racing, trying to categorize the sensation. He had spent centuries watching mortals from above.
He had seen the desperate, hungry kisses of people in the slums trying to forget their misery for an hour. He had seen the quiet, tired affection of couples who had survived decades of dust together.
He understood the mechanics of it—that it was a gesture reserved for those who belonged to one another.
But he had never understood the feeling. It wasn't just a press of skin; it was a transfer of heat that made his very divinity feel heavy and grounded.
It was the realization that a kiss on the lips was worlds away from a kiss on the forehead or a graze on the chin. This was an invitation.
But despite that invitation, Theo didn't push further. Despite the fire that Alias could feel radiating off him, Theo simply stopped.
He stood up, keeping Alias's hand firmly in his, and guided him toward the slightly larger lean-to tent.
