Çiçek runs like her life depends on it. The sinewy muscles of her banded legs sing with the effort it takes to fly over the soft white sand, the last bits of petals in her hair fluttering like a pink trail of breadcrumbs behind her. Her ears are full of the sound of her pulse and the barrage of noise beating down on her from all directions, from the crash of the water onto the shore at her left to the calls and cries of the birds and insects in the jungle at her right. In no time she reaches the tide pools, but instead of stopping, the spotted mare plants her hind legs and jumps right over them. She doesn’t want to quit running, can’t quit running. The movement is what holds all the pieces of her together, and she worries that if she stops, the ties straining her resolve will all come apart and the soft, vulnerable flesh of her core will be laid bare for all to see.

Çiçek comes to a curve, twisting along the edge of the island. Around the bend she goes until she comes upon a smaller, more secluded cove. The strip of sand that divides the water from the undergrowth is thinner here, and she finds herself forced to take her gait first down to a canter, then a trot. She throws her weight onto her hind legs to keep from tumbling headfirst into the jungle, and the force of her movement spins her around to face the direction from whence she’d come, her high laugh ringing like bells in her pale throat. "I win," she crows, triumphant. Her brown eyes gleam with adrenaline, and her body glistens with sweat under the dappled sunlight beneath the palms arching high above. She already knows what her prize will be for her effort, picturing the muscular bay mare with her silvery mane bedecked in fragrant blooms. "Rivaini, hold sti-"

Her voice stops in her throat. Suddenly, she realizes: Rivaini isn’t here. Neither is Faolain. Her friends haven’t followed her this far, though she’s unsure whether they got stuck at the tide pools or just didn’t give in to her games. Çiçek, already panting with exertion, huffs a bit dejectedly, her ears flicking back. "Kahretsin," she mutters between breaths. How is she supposed to play these games if nobody indulges her? Çiçek’s hard stare sweeps the beach; she finds her hoofprints, quickly being washed away to sea, and just behind them… a second set, heavier. Bigger. Her brow furrows. She can’t see where they end, these prints. Her pink nose curls, and she whirls back around, confused. "Kim-?"

Her answer stands before her. His scent overwhelms her, now, and she wonders at how she missed it. Her body tenses in surprise, but as she tilts her head up to look into his emerald eyes, her gaze softens, and the flutes of her ears curve forward. Blood rushes into her face, and the thin band of her control stretches taut again as she reaches, every last nerve ending crying out in exasperation, to glide her muzzle feather-light over the broad caramel expanse of Solomon’s cheek.

"It’s not winning if you cheat, kralım," she murmurs. The fragrance of the pines from his homeland still clings to his skin. Her breath still comes ragged in her lungs, though now she cannot tell whether it is from her mad dash along the coast or his proximity, and the vice like grip she holds on her control loosens by one solitary hypothetical finger.