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Diantha smells like wilting flowers and faint smoke; Diantha smells sophisticated, sumptuous, alluring; Diantha smells like the suggestion of a smell, like she’s teasing. With her hair down, curled by her usual crown of braids, she looks younger; the smoke drifting through the air makes her look older, blurs her face until Cynthia can pretend not to recognize its expression.
“C’mere,” she says, nosing into the crook of Diantha’s elegant neck, and it feels dull in her chest, even as Diantha’s throat vibrates against her lips with a hummed reply, even as Diantha leans into her.