Kea’s touch was always gentle, her fingers tracing across Y’shtola’s body not unlike a scholar gingerly leafing through a lost tome of long-forgotten mysteries. There was a reverence to it: the way Kea would pause at every detail, the way she paid careful attention to every response Y’shtola made. It was almost akin to an act of worship, an unspoken prayer for their future, written on her skin through Kea’s fingertips.