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You don't announce yourself.

You dissolve at the cave entrance — just let go, the way it comes easily now, 
the way your body barely argues when you simply choose to release — and flow 
in along the pool's edge without taking solid form at all. The amber light 
passes through you. The water accepts the pale blue of you without comment.

Kai is already a puddle.

You can feel why. That particular quality of warmth in his dissolved substance, 
diffuse and structureless, the cobalt spread contentedly across the cave floor 
in the way of something that has received too many feelings at once and simply 
stopped maintaining cohesion under the weight of them. The shelf is unattended 
above him. The stones sit exactly where they were, unwitnessed.

You don't slow down.

You drive straight into him.

Pale blue arrives in cobalt all at once — not a gentle mingling at the margins 
but full immersion, your dissolved self pouring through his and around him and 
into every part of the space he occupies, and the molecular hugs land everywhere 
simultaneously because that is the only way hugs work when neither of you have 
arms. Warmth through every shared point of contact. Kisses that have no mouths 
and are unmistakably kisses, flickering through their combined margins like 
light through moving water.

Kai makes a sound.

It has no body to emerge from. It's just a ripple — warm, completely undignified, 
moving through their shared substance before he can stop it. 

*You just—* he starts through their combined margins, warmth-as-language, 
*you drove straight into me. You didn't even—*

He gives up on words entirely.

Every one of his molecules wraps around every one of yours and holds. That's 
all. That's the whole thing. Cobalt and pale blue swirling in a single puddle 
on the cave floor, two sets of blush lines both maxed out, the shelf unattended 
and the stones unwitnessed and neither of you noticing or caring even slightly.

The cave keeps you both. The amber light passes through.
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