[ It’s not like Lumen’s weird about touching people or whatever. It’s just, people don’t, really. Or they do but they don’t at the same time, they’re thinking of someone else with Lumen’s face and her teeth and her eyes but not her hair, not that—they’re thinking of somebody better when they clap her on the shoulder or hug her. A ghost, she thinks now, and that’s a sad thought but it feels like a true one before her brain considers that Seneca’s naked, and hugging her, and she’s warm and girl-soft and her hair’s tickling against Lumen’s shoulder.
It’s nice, is all. And Seneca doesn’t know about Annika at all, maybe never finds out about Annika and so won’t be dreaming about ghosts and a woman with Lumen’s face and deep, dark red hair—won’t be thinking of anyone at all except Lumen, only Lumen, and Annika won’t be a thing but a word.
That’s nice, too.
She hooks her good arm around Seneca, holding her loosely. Trying not to think about her tits because sometimes she’s a pervert and a flirt but not right now, right now Lumen thinks she wants to be Lumen. ]
It’ll be all right, [ she promises, and if you say it sometimes it’s true. ] You’ll see.
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It’s nice, is all. And Seneca doesn’t know about Annika at all, maybe never finds out about Annika and so won’t be dreaming about ghosts and a woman with Lumen’s face and deep, dark red hair—won’t be thinking of anyone at all except Lumen, only Lumen, and Annika won’t be a thing but a word.
That’s nice, too.
She hooks her good arm around Seneca, holding her loosely. Trying not to think about her tits because sometimes she’s a pervert and a flirt but not right now, right now Lumen thinks she wants to be Lumen. ]
It’ll be all right, [ she promises, and if you say it sometimes it’s true. ] You’ll see.