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Hunter loves Willow the way the earth loves the sun, the birds love the sky.
Every strand of hair on her head is worth its weight in gold and more, to him. They’re strokes of paint on the most beautiful piece of art in the world, art Hunter has the honor of admiring every morning. His years of waking up with the sunrise in his childhood were more of a blessing than a curse to him now, and he would never sleep again if it meant he could watch her sleep peacefully next to him every day. Every morning, when they greet each other, he wants to stop time and live that moment forever. Unfortunately, they must break their eyes away and continue their day.
And her eyes, oh, her eyes. The way they betray her intelligence, her passion, her emotion. They flicker with every train of thought, connecting ideas as though an imaginary bulletin board with string was in front of her. And when she focuses, she brows furrow with a scrunch he gets the pleasure of kissing away, a way to say ‘Focus, but breathe. I know you know you can do this.’ Every time he does it, she passes him a look of gratitude, a softened gaze that could melt glaziers with its warmth, before continuing her endeavors with just as much vigor as before.
She always presses her left palm to her cheek when she writes, fingers tapping in tandem with her thoughts. When she taps quickly, Hunter knows to stay away. When she slows back down, he brings her the mug of tea he kept warm and waiting for her to enjoy.
Hunter cooks, for her. And there’s a difference, really, between making food and cooking. For Willow, he learns her parents’ recipes and her favorite human diner’s specials. When he presents a dish to her for the first time, her lips quirk in gratitude but she always lifts her fork up for him to have the first bite. Not out of fear of poison, never, but out of a love for sharing. The experience of eating is so delicate, in their family. Each meal is connected to a mood, to a memory. Especially human Especially human cuisines, from their time studying horticulture at the Gravesfield community college. Chinese dinners, when they need something filling and comforting after a hard day of work. Indian lunches, when Willow’s family visits after game days and project reviews. Arab breakfasts, when they want to enjoy quiet mornings together on the balcony, leaned over one another. He learns it all, for all the different moments they enjoy together. For all the meals he has the pleasure of having with her.
When they talk, all Hunter wants to do is listen. It's not that he doesn't participate. No, not at all, he's had his fair share of rambles and she's done her fair share of listening. It's just that, well, Willow’s voice is more than music. It's more than the sound of a bird's first song, or a bell’s jingle, or a baby’s laugh. No, when Willow speaks it’s more than mere magic, it’s a trance. A spell. A siren’s call. Hunter finds himself hanging on to every word, every syllable, every pause and every breath she takes. All he wants to do is engrave her into memory every gesture and every switch of tone. Every laugh, every whisper, every exhale a promise. To live, to love, to be.
And her touch is electrifying. Hunter’s an adult, and a mature one at that, but he could never get bored of her touch. When he holds her hand, it feels like home. When she pats his shoulders as she passes by, a reminder of her constant presence and support, a smile befalls with neither encouragement nor protest. When he kisses her, he’s doomed to become intoxicated on the desire to love her, to be reminded over and over again that he loves her more than anything else.
Hunter once read a poem, in a language not his own, on insomnia. The poet bemoaned the relentless struggle to sleep due to being overcome by a powerful and consuming love, one brimming with joy and anguish. Hunter could never imagine his love for Willow being anguished. The pain itself is love, like Orpheus’ doom in turning for Eurydice. But for certain in the poem, the love was so overpowering it made the author question humanity’s existence, fate, and the inevitability of death. In that, Hunter could relate. Meeting Willow - meeting his friends - opened a world to him he never once thought he could have. It was on that day that he challenged fate, asserting himself as not just a tool in another man’s legacy.
But sleepless eyes and a pounding heart? Hunter could certainly relate to that. It was like she cursed him, when they locked eyes for the first time all those years ago. Admiration and intimidation, trepidation and hope…how else could he describe the promise his Captain’s words held?
Willow Park is the smartest witch he’s ever known. Her words carry the weight of the world, and the law of the land. That’s not to say they disagree- oh, not at all. When they clash, they clash hard. Differences in upbringings, contradictions in stances, conflicts in beliefs. But they work it out, and push through it. The reason why they argue is because they want to understand, not because they want to hurt the other, so it always ends in some sort of acceptable resolution before they’re back to their lovie-dovie selves.
He learned that expression from Luz. She said it fondly, if teasingly, and Hunter found it acceptable. He has no shame in his love, for it is complete and full, sincere and wholesome. His friends don’t disagree, but they find joy in their light mockery. They gag when he sighs as she walks by, they jeer when he trips over himself to open the door for her. They also cried at their wedding, not a single dry eye in the garden where they took their vows.
Hunter had to take vows many times in his life. When he became a scout, when he became the Golden Guard, when he became the Coven Head. All those times, he thought the roles he was taking were his missing piece, his way of being fulfilled. But on his wedding day, he the vows he took, the role he claimed as husband and companion, they were for himself and his compliment. Being with Willow did not complete him but enhanced him.
To say she is beautiful would be an injustice to her, for there was no word to encompass her.
He has the privilege of waking up and loving Willow Park every day. What a life he gets to live.
Willow loves Hunter the way flowers love the sun, the palismen love magic.
From his head to his toes, her husband lives every day like a new life. When her sleepy eyes trail after him as he gets ready for the day, she counts the strokes he brushes over his hair. He’s always so precise in his practice, so firm in his motions. She gets to wake up to him pressing his lips on her temple, and she feigns sleep as he whispers words in her ears he’d fluster to utter if he knew she was awake, words of adoration that make her heart flutter, poetry out of books she could only read to herself when she was younger. She would sleep forever if it meant he’d keep loving her that way, except that would mean she wouldn’t be able to return the favor.
So, she was content to let him kiss, whisper, and walk away. Then, she’d open her eyes and mumble a greeting, before trailing after him to press her head into his warm shoulders. She’d hold him from behind, a silent desire to curl back into bed with him by her side, and he’d push her away gingerly. It pained him as much as it did her, but the world wouldn’t pause for their desires. She’d groan, stretch her limbs, pop her shoulders, and get on with her day.
She always goes through her planner every morning, while Hunter makes their drinks. She adjusts their agendas, still rubbing some of the sleep from her face when Hunter draws attention to his presence. He always makes her tea just right, with the perfect amount of honey and an even more perfect amount of tenderness. She silently thanks him by returning the kiss, and then tells him what to expect outside of his regular carpentry. It’s always nice to start their mornings like this, together.
Hunter works hard, and she always matches his energy. They drive each other to be the best they can be, off and on the courts. As Hunter takes the first shower, Willow sharpens his tools. Sure, he could do it himself, but then she wouldn’t have the chance to write him a little note on the inside of his toolbox? On rougher days, when he spent the night tumbling in memories he’d rather not relive, she writes him pages of affirmations, reminders that he’s loved. On good days, she leaves a little joke with a ‘Love, Willow,’ tacked at the end with a kiss. On days where she wants to cause mischief, she leaves him a note that’ll have him spluttering and hiding from Dell. Those days, she knows to expect a hushed call of chastisement. “Not when I’m at work!” And his stutter would draw her smile, because he was never truly mad, because he really meant, ‘Not when I can’t do anything about how much I can’t come over there and kiss you senseless.’
Hunter’s a shy but eager kisser, usually. He peppers kisses anywhere and everywhere he can reach. Her cheeks, her ears, the tip of her nose, he even moves her glasses away to press love softly on her lids. He’s scarcely bold in his love, though, and blushes when their lips connect. He’s so precious. He treats every touch like an opportunity to remind her how much he loves her, and she loves to reciprocate in turn. She grabs his hands and kisses his palms, his knuckles, his wrists, his scars, everywhere she can before he giggles and pushes her away. He’s a ticklish one, she’s grown to learn. She loves it when he laughs.
His name is Hunter, and he has hunted and he been hunted. But when they’re alone, together, the hardened soldier that once was is the softest giant in all the realms. He’s rough and unapologetic when they’re playing flyer derby together, or when they’re sparring, but otherwise? Otherwise, his touches are featherlight. When he talks, it’s not that he’s quiet, or soft-spoken. He’s loud, and passionate, and snarky, and all the things that make her turn her head before the words have even left his mouth. It's just that he’s careful. He thinks before he speaks, every word is delegated with a specific intent. Willow doesn’t bother to pick them apart; if he wants her to know what he means, it’ll be clear. If he doesn’t…that’s usually where they butt heads. not that he doesn't participate. Hunter was a politician: he knows how to make his intentions known or indiscernible. When his guard’s up, sometimes it takes her a second to even notice. That’s when she knows to be on edge, to be ready for anything. But she trusts him, always. He’d never lie to her without purpose, and never keep something hidden forever. Hunter loves her, she knows that better than anybody.
Her boy is – and she says this fondly – a dork. He names palismen after plants if he carved them while she rambled about her studies. He scarcely calls her her name, always a nickname or a reminder of their devotion. Captain, Love, Princess, Muse… she has to interrupt him sometimes when he introduces her to people, because he forgets that not everyone had her name on their lips when they woke up. One time, at a party, a stranger came up to her and Luz, saying “Excuse me, do you guys know where Angel is? Hunter’s looking for her,” and Amity had to stop Luz from shoving her face in the nearest punch bowl.
Honestly, Willow was just as bad. She named plants after Cosmic Frontier and Ruler’s Reach characters; she even referenced them in her vows! Yeah, Willow was smitten for Hunter. That didn’t even cover it, really. She saw him in everything. ‘Hunter would like this song, Hunter would hate that shirt, Hunter would make a silly joke about that picture, Hunter would cry if he watched that movie.’ She carried her love for him wherever she went, like a badge of honor. Her name is Willow Park, and she gets to love Hunter with all her heart. If younger her could see herself now, she wouldn’t believe it. It’s a romance better than any novel, a love story that’s most compelling in its domesticity. Gone are the days of daydreaming that a charming prince would sweep her off her feet- here, she has a boy who moves her and she him. They work in sync; they know each other better than anyone else.
There are no words to describe Hunter, because it’s all a jumble of emotions in her heart that no one could ever name. It’s serene in its ferociousness, loud in its peace.
To love Hunter is to live her best time, and to live her best life is to have Hunter by her side.