[Breathe.]

Okay.

[All the noise in his head that's been blocking so many of her word starts to quiet and flicker low, like a fire going out. He takes another moment down there to take stock of himself, of both of them; the wreath is cool and pliant between his hand, the floor hard under his knee, her fingers real in his the way only things that are alive can be, solid and flexible and capable of surprise.

As he rises, Prompto wonders if he feels the same in her hand. If he's so unexpected to her, too. He reaches up and settles the crown on her brow, where it belongs.

It feels like the first time his feet have landed solidly on earth in days, when he looks at her. Like something's not going to scatter him with a blow. He's here, with her, where she wants him to be; he can hardly believe it, but he trusts her, and so he doesn't have to. He knows it.]

I think you're the most beautiful.

[His voice is soft and shy, still, but he doesn't stammer. He adjusts the leaves and petals carefully so he can see her eyes.]

And I want... to do things... that are special, only for you. Like. Like calling me Quicksilver, only... more. All the time. That's okay?