AN: Set after WonM, but can be read separately without a problem.

Moon Dust Halo

Summary: Kit/Nita. That's it.

You love her.

This is a stunning revelation, despite how long the feeling has obviously lain dormant in the back of your heart. You never looked at it before. Now you have, and now you know: She is amazing. She is strong. She is stubborn in a way that ceased to be annoying the same day it started being adorable. She is with you, always, in sickness and health, hell or high water, devastation or death. You realize it on the day you nearly lost yourself, the day that she was with you- like always- saving you: No one could ever compare to Nita Callahan.

So you love her.

She stomps down the stairs, arms crossed, scowl in place, and tosses a word over her shoulder to her sister that probably would get her in trouble later. She's wearing jeans, an old T-shirt, and sandals with the soles peeling away from the shoes.

Love spreads to your skin from the inside out, until you can almost see it radiating from you, like a moon dust halo.

You are early, and when Nita sees you, she blinks, surprised. She's not one for blushing, but it's a close call nonetheless.

You smile. When she smiles back, you wonder if she would feel your love as a physical thing if you took her hand. If you were brave enough to try, that is. Inside the house, with her father and sister, you are not.

Half a mile from the doorstep, you are. You don't know for sure what she feels, but she twist her hand in your grip until her fingers are laced with yours, squeezing and a little sweaty, and that is more than good enough.

You are happy. Happy just with swinging your hands lightly between you as you walk through the still warm twilight. Happy chatting, or in silence. Happy in being with her.

You are more than happy when she scoots a little closer in the theater, frowning as she lifts the arm separating your seat from hers, (something you hadn't scraped up enough courage to do yourself,) and leans her head on your shoulder. It's a new and wonderful feeling.

Through a hundred and fifteen minutes of cheap one-liners, implausible explosions, and gratuitous violence you don't stop grinning once.

One block from her house and you pull on the hand in yours, making her stop. You've done things in the past that have required more courage than what you want to do tonight, but right now you can't remember what any of them are.

You swallow.

Take one step.

Grab her free hand with yours.

Take two.

Her eyebrows are arched by step three, curving like question marks, but she stands still as you start to lean in. Her fingers squeeze yours in silent encouragement as you hesitate. (She always knows when you need a little push.)

Her lips taste like lemon. Her mind tastes like Nita.

You pull back, hold your breath, and wait. Her eyes open, and she takes her hands away. You open your mouth to speak, but she puts her hands back on you, (on your shoulders, this time,) and matches you kiss for kiss. You know she thinks you taste like Kit, and you love her.

Because she loves you, too.