She was gold.

All of his life Prem had been surrounded by the cold tones of silver. His family crest, a cool grey star to match the namesake of his father, the Silverstar. Their house had been decorated with delicate white curtains intertwined with sparkling silver threads. All of the rings on his hand, gifts from each of his birthdays since he was five, were silver. Even the plates they ate on were the cold, stoic metal.

But Aida was gold. As warm as the golden rays of sunlight that beamed through the parted morning clouds and bathed the forest in lively hues of yellow.

When they had been to the sand shores of the lake for the first time, as close as the two had ever come to seeing the ocean, her face had lit up with excitement. The sand was not white as the beaches of Olympia were said to be but rather they were golden sands.

The warm hues seemed to reflect from her smiling face as she watched the gentle lapping waters of the lake while he watched her.

She’s gold like the honey she stirs in her tea. He can’t stand the stuff—the honey or the tea. The golden, sugary substance thick like ichor is far too sweet and the tea is far too spiced. But the smell reminds him of her.

On cold mornings sitting across from her, he’s watch and listen to the clink of her spoon against the mug. And he could smell the strong spiced scent of clove and cinnamon and cardamom. The aroma is strong but nearly as jarring as the taste he samples from her cup.

It suits her, he thinks—comparing her to gold or to sunlight or spiced tea. Things he had lived so long without it seems, that he was lacking—gold like warmth. He needs her. He needs her warmth.