you wake up in Locke’s house after his party the night before. Your mouth tastes of sour plums and is swollen from kissing. Locke is bestie you on the bed, eyes shut, still in his party clothes. You pause in the act of rising to study him, his sharp ears and fox-fur hair, the softness of his mouth, his long limbs spread out in sleep. His head is pillowed on one Ruffle-covered wrist