AUTUMN, SPRING

Sophia is all of autumn, wrapped up in soft curls and softer layers. She kicks through leaves on the ground with her buckled boots and scatters them across paths, and the colours are her colours, golds and oranges and the crinkle of brown.

Emma is in love with this woman, and the way she is an entire season, cheeks rose red and lips chapped and breath streaming out as though she were a dragon, smoke hanging in the frigid air, and Emma could breathe it in and fancies she could taste her, cinnamon and hot cocoa and bitter coffee aftertaste.

Sophia's mittened hand finds hers as they walk, and Sophia glances across, a small smile on her face. Her face is flushed with the chill of the breeze, and Emma wants to gather her to her, to warm her with gentle hands and soft kisses.

"I understand why fires burn," Emma says, and Sophia makes an inquisitive sound, prompting her to go on. "They burn because they love. To keep warm, to keep safe. To ward off danger. A spark, something so small, that can become so big. They burn to protect."

"You're feeling philosophical," Sophia says, and squeezes Emma's hand. "You're beautiful when you're philosophical."

"You're my fire," Emma says, pretending she didn't hear the compliment, but holding it close, all the same.

"I know. And you are mine."

"It's not the same," Emma protests. "My fire is destructive, the kind of fire that is wild and untamed, that men seek to pour water on. To be put out."

"I am no man," Sophia points out. "And I think I rather like your flames. I see all my colours in them, reflected back to me, and I think I like that."

"Am I a reflection of you?" Emma asks.

"Yes, no. A thousand answers on a thousand different days. Sometimes, you reflect me utterly and I cannot believe I have found someone who can think my thoughts before I do. Other days, you are something entirely new and unpredictable, and I love that just as much. You are this - fucking thunderstorm, and you are the tent that shelters me. I can hear the rain, and how it pounds on the canvas overhead, but I know you'll never hurt me. You would never allow yourself to. The same is true of the fire that burns in you. You don't see me as destructive, so how can I see you that way? I love and I love and I love, and that might tear me apart, but Em, you are this incredible person, and I think I could love you forever, if I were allowed to."

"Philosophical," Emma says, and smiles. Sophia leans her shoulder against hers, and kicks leaves over Emma's boots.

"I can't let you have the monopoly on it, can I?" Sophia teases. She spins, so that she's standing in front of Emma, their hands still held tight. Sophia darts forward, presses a kiss to the corner of Emma's mouth, where a small white scar hides a different life, almost, but not quite, buried.

Emma catches her before she can dart away again, an arm around her waist, drawing her in, breathing in her dragon breath and kissing her like a prayer. Sophia always makes the smallest sounds, like she daren't be overheard, and Emma wants to commit each one of those noises to memory.

When Sophia pulls back, she traces a finger down Emma's cheekbone, the rough wool of her mitten should sting but it doesn't. Hurt without hurt.

"I am very lucky to have found you," Sophia says, and takes a step backwards, leading Emma forwards, ever forwards. "I think it would be a shame not to know you, not to love you."

I believe in destiny when I look at you, Emma doesn't say. I believe that autumn always comes around, and you along with it.

"I think I would love you even if I didn't know you," she says instead.

"That's just showing off," Sophia grins. She keeps leading Emma forwards, a beacon to guide her home.

"It's true though," Emma says, because she knows she would feel the lack of her, an ache in her chest, something missing, were Sophia not here beside her.

"I know," Sophia says. "You have no idea what it means to me when you say things like that."

"You call me beautiful and I lock it in a box, to check on like a caged bird, something precious I must keep," Emma says. "So I have some idea."

"I must not tell you often enough then," Sophia says. "You should never have to check. You should know, as sure as your heartbeat. Know that I love you and that you are beautiful and that I found you and you found me and we are here, and we are alive, and the world is kind to us."

"The world is kind?" Emma asks.

"Because you are mine and I am yours, yes. The world is indeed kind."

"I want to tell you you're wrong, I want to argue, but I can't," Emma says. "Anything else, and I'd protest. But I won't call you a liar."

"Good, don't," Sophia says, and kicks more leaves over Emma's boots, almost covering them.

I will make you a home, I will make you my wife, I will dedicate poems and books and my life to you, I will make you my muse and my patron. I will love you for every star in the sky, Emma thinks.

"You are autumn," she says instead.

"Then you are spring," Sophia replies. "You bring me back to life."

Emma pulls her close, kisses her soundly, swallowing her noises and pressing a hand to a cold cheek, warming it. She can feel Sophia fighting back a smile, a fight she loses, breaking apart and resting her forehead against Emma's.

"Let's go home," Sophia says. "There are better ways to be warm."

"But you so enjoy kicking up leaves," Emma says.

"There will be more autumn days," Sophia says. "And more spring days too. Too many to count."

"Okay, let's go home," Emma says.

Sophia guides her, and the wool of her mitten doesn't scratch against Emma's palm. She kicks up leaves the whole way there.

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