hera. four. cb. fin.

His lips taste of wild cherries, the collar of his cotton pullover smells of ripe strawberries, freshly picked from the vine.

She knows.

He's doing it again and she knows.

She always does.

Hera gazes up at him, her cheek leaning against his shoulder, "Where were you last night?"

There's a hint of venom to her words, of jealousy. He shifts under her weight, the hollow of his throat sinking in like a wrecked ship, and she already knows the answer before the lies slip from his tongue.

"At home, the estate lawyer had more things for us to handle," his voice is like the crack of thunder, and he looks down at her with a small smile toying about his lips, "My father was a fickle man, you know this."

Hera nods, searching his eyes for anything, for something to grasp, to hold onto. It's like looking into nothing, an endless well of night, and she falls right in.

"Don't worry about it," he adds dismissively, snaking his arm around her waist, pulling her into his chest. His body radiates like the sun. A moth to a flame, she can't help but be drawn to his warmth. Her mother always told her she had an overgrown heart, an orchard blossoming within her chest, and maybe she was right all along.

"Of course."

The fruit will always be forbidden, but she'll take a bite anyways.