⤐ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝.
"I need you to listen to me. When we're out there together, if I say run, run. If I tell you to leave me, then damn it, you le...
'he is more myself than I am. whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' -emily brontë
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
⤐
'If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.'
Zeppelin looked up from the faded copy of Wuthering Heights to where Daryl poked around in the kitchen cabinets. Dark tendrils of hair fell past his chin and hung over his eyes as he peered around every nook and cranny, concentrating on preparing breakfast.
They were sleepless the night before when she returned from Hilltop, too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to the time skating by. When hours had passed, late evening into midnight into dawn, all laced with kisses and labored breaths, and they finally managed to keep their hands off each other for more than five minutes, he insisted, no, demanded she let him feed her immediately.
"Biggest damn end-of-the-world breakfast you've ever had," he had promised her. To his dismay, she made it a point to scope the house first. Daryl grumbled about how he did it already, but he still thoroughly checked the perimeter and any entrances outside. Zepp stayed inside, exploring her new surroundings. She avoided the nursery, hardly casting the marked door a second glance as she hurriedly went through every other room.
To her delight, the office downstairs was lined with bookshelves against every wall, the spaces carved out of thick, dark cherry wood. Some encyclopedias and autobiographies, on which she barely skimmed a finger over the spines as she moved on, but primarily classics, fantasy, and romance.
The kind of stories she would submerse herself in when she was younger, escaping to another world, a better world. Cocooning herself with a protection of loquacious declarations of love and honor, of rage and strength, characters that would never exist, though she could still find little parts of herself in each one, like tiny shreds of her soul scattered through time and dimensions.
She stood in awe at the shelves upon shelves of all the greats, some still in their original bindings, faded with time, but it was clear that they had been devotionally cared for.
Her wandering gaze was immediately drawn to one of her favorites, the only novel she had managed to stuff in her duffel bag the night she ran away from home. Wuthering Heights. The forest green binding and gold lettering called out to her like a lamp post on a midnight-shrouded street.
She flipped through the pages absentmindedly, and her fingers knowingly caressed the worn paper, the muscle memory already bringing her to some of her favorite parts as if no time had passed since she'd cracked it open.
