He tightened his grip on my hand, and I turned to look at him, momentarily lost in the soft golden warmth that radiated off of him.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said, giving him a genuine smile- those always came so easily around him, regardless of my mood- and leaning closer into his side. I relished his warmth as the biting cold from the people we passed seeped into my skin. There was the occasional warm soul flitting by, but most of the time, if I made eye contact with a stranger, I would be staring into a dark, freezing void.

He didn’t see the world the way I did, but he understood me in a way no one else did. My family- even now I shiver, thinking of their icy grips on my arms, the mottled bruises they left in their wake- had been all that I had ever known for so long, I was astonished to discover that there existed people without black, piercing gazes. I wonder what he thought when he first encountered the stick-thin girl with matted hair and tattered clothes, and especially what he thought when she began following him around like a puppy that had been starved for warmth its whole life, staring at him with a mixture of confusion and adoration.

I couldn’t help myself.

Every person I had ever met was cold and bitter, but even as a teenager, the warmth radiated from him, golden light spilling off of his skin. It matched his soul. I had been afraid of everything back then- everything was new, and I couldn’t trust anyone to help- but he took me in. Gave me food to eat, found other people with warm hands that gave me clothes and a bed, talked to me in that gentle voice until eventually, I began speaking back.

I told him of my home. When I explained about my family his normally soft eyes turned sharp and I thought I had made a terrible mistake, but he held my hand and his voice broke as he swore to me that no one would _ever_ hurt me again, and I believed him.

I told him how I saw the world, and his dark brown eyes blinked bewilderedly at me when I called him “golden.” But I kept explaining until he understood and looked away as though he were embarrassed and happy all at once, murmuring that he was glad I felt that way around him.

He told me things too. About his family; I never knew that a mother could treat her child so gently, and I felt a pain in my chest that was almost like loss, though I was so grateful that someone as wonderful as him didn’t have to suffer. Countless stories, real and fictional. We spent hours reading together, but I liked it best when he’d tell me his stories. He liked to make them up and watch my reactions as I listened, and I was enraptured by both the fantastical worlds he’d create and his kind, gentle voice.

And then one day, more nervous than I had ever seen him, he talked to me about kissing, and asked if I’d mind…

His lips were warm and soft.

I’m still timid when going out of my- _our_ home, now. For every golden light I see, it feels like there are a hundred dark, icy voids.

But as long as I have my golden sun, I am safe and warm.