[b]Alexa[/b]

You don’t get to wonder at his thoughts, or where you stand in them. You have enough on your mind as it is.

His little hands squeeze gently on yours, and he gives you his wool. He dips his head, and presses a cloud into your hand, all soft spirals and silly wisps. You don’t get to wonder if it’s alright to run your fingers through his curls. Back and forth, back and forth, he shakes his head, and if you just want to hold still, that’s fine too. He’ll sneak your hand between wool and hood with the care of a true expert, either way.

He is here. Bring the shadows of your heart into this flickering light. Speak of monsters you haven’t named yet. Bring whatever you may into this place, the spell will not break because he chooses to be here. With you. For you. And should you doubt, then hear the truth in the warmth against your hand and the feather-brush of his presence: I am here. I am here. I am here.

“That may be what he wanted.” He nuzzles a cheek into hands strong enough to move a star. “But I don’t think he got a spear, in the end.”

Spears don’t usually fit in the kitchen, you know. They certainly don’t get to sit at the dinner table; good manners would leave them at the door. Hestia’s skill in sewing is peerless, but it’s very hard to make clothes for someone of those proportions.

But if you think that a four-armed hoodie is beyond her, then underestimate her at your peril.