[ There's another twist behind her ribs when Parisa calls her Heart, more tender this time--both in the sense of bruising and the sense of longed-for sweetness.

Parisa's upright shift means Shadowheart is settled in her lap, more or less, knees still bracketing her thighs. Lets Parisa touch her cheek, her lips, holding her gaze all the while, expression wary. ]

I don't know if I can trust you. [ Her other self did, because she trusted everyone; because they had a long stretch of history together. For a moment, she imagines the history they might build now, a future that feels as hazy and improbable as her lost memories. ] I'm not terribly good at trust, after everything. But I'm willing to try.

[ Shadowheart lifts a hand to the nape of Parisa's neck, spreads her fingers to cup the occipital bone. She murmurs something, and there's a bloom of warmth and pale light from her fingertips, easing whatever pain is left from the tadpole and from Shadowheart pushing her into the grass. ]

That's my honest truth.