Darkness did not welcome them.
It adjusted.
Their hands remained linked as they crossed the threshold-- Galathea Brooks' fingers threaded through Cael Alexander's with deliberate pressure, not clinging, not uncertain, but chosen. The contact grounded something that the space immediately attempted to dissolve.
The moment they stepped fully inside, distance failed.
The floor stretched without moving. The air pressed without weight. The edges of the room refused to settle into fixed positions, sliding just slightly out of alignment each time the eye attempted to anchor them.
Galathea didn't loosen her grip.
Neither did he.
"Stay with me," Cael said, his voice low, controlled-- not because she would drift, but because the space suggested she could.
"I am," she replied, her tone steady, despite the drag already threading through her arms.
Both arms.
