The urge to see him was drowned by the swish of his wing opening. The air scattered over my back. A new urge replaced the old one.
“Can I see your wing?” I asked. Too impulsively. “Uh, I mean…”
His steps approached from behind, not touching me, yet the air was so compact I could feel him close. His height, his breath on my scalp, his bare warmth. A little movement and our bodies would flush. “Don’t turn around.”
I could see red in my peripheral vision. “I won’t.”
The wing moved around me. Thick, long, beautiful crimson feathers spread like a fan in front of me. I inhaled softly and my hand reach out carefully to a feather. The wing lowered, feathers sliding down my arm and sending shivers wherever they touched.
“Happy?” he said distractedly. I bit my lip and nodded, rubbing my arm.
