INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[doggish]

[Of course it's Rialto. What else would it be? Leto's answer is the very same, without pause for thought or reflection. And that's not to say there haven't been other nights that were special— of course there were. Not just fun or thrilling, but intimate in a way that Leto hadn't known you could have, full of whispered words of devotion and touches that soothed his very soul. Nights where it felt like their souls tangled together as much as their bodies, endlessly intimate and achingly adoring.

And yet Rialto still stands out: a shining beacon of a night whose mere mention has Leto smiling warmly, endeared and in love.]

I have few treasured memories, but that is one of them. It will always be one of them. The way you looked as you stood in the sea, fireworks around us . . . the way you sounded the first time you told me you loved me.

[How I have loved you for so long, menace that you are, and the words seared themselves onto his soul, as permanent as any scar.]

And I think often, too, of the night that followed. All of it, from the things you showed me to the ways in which we talked . . . there is not a detail that does not remain clear in my mind. That was the first time