The Sweet Spot Café. I asked her to meet me here at 11, but it's 11:04 and I've been waiting here for half an hour already—I always make a point to be early. But now the lunch rush is coming, my tea's getting cold, and I'm bored shitless. The place'll be packed before long and I don't care for crowds. I can't bring it up with her, of course; she doesn't share my theory of Punctuality. Maybe that's a me problem.

Then the door swings open and all eyes are on her. Dark and towering, my fashionably late date struts across the threshold, eyes shaded by that outlandish hat, violet curls streaming behind. Built like a brick. Lambent Dawn—you couldn't mistake her for any other. She approaches my booth—our booth—and now all those eyes are on the two of us. Forgetting myself for a moment I smile, then frown, but I can't hold on to my discontent long enough to make it count.

"Looks like I'm right on time," she croons. Her mouth barely curls, but her dark eyes are bright behind her veil. She knows she's not.

"Not hardly," I grumble; "you're late, but there's still time to make up for it."

Lambent settles in next to me, and suddenly I'm very small. She calls me big fella and I smolder; If it was anypony else I think I'd combust. I like the sound of it coming from her. I shoulder check her instead and linger on the moment of impact just long enough to breathe in her smell: rope and sweat. I forget she smokes that slag; might be why she's so flippant.

"You're one to talk, you overbuilt cob." Too harsh. I regret the jab instantly, but it's too late to take it back. A violet strand clings damply to my shoulder as I reel back.

She laughs a little too loud and I feel all those eyes on us again. "Well, if you don't care for my attention after all," she says, heaving her tits onto the table with an indulgent huff, "I reckon I'll keep quiet and let you do your lil thing." A sly little grin. Is she flirting or making fun of me?

I feel their gravity pull my gaze, but I can't give in. My eyes are down now, and away—anywhere but there. Something else. Try again.

"Are you kidding?" I wave my hand vaguely at the rest of the room. "With the looks you draw, there's ample attention to satisfy us both."

Lambent peers at me over a mass of curls, eyes narrowed. "Thought you was into that." She tosses her hair back. Is she flirting? Is she pissed off? I can never tell. Maybe it's a game. Maybe she's bored. Maybe she is just Like This.

I fold into myself, a subtle envelope unaddressed. I'm not sure she even wanted to meet me here. She probably felt sorry for me and couldn't say no. Sometimes I won't hear from her for weeks, then she shows up and it's like she never left, but I'm always the one asking for her company in the end. She's always late, too—is it flippancy or is she putting off the inevitable? There's this larger than life air about her that only makes me more skeptical. Who am I to think I could catch the eye of a legend like her?

I forget what I even wanted out of this; whatever it was, it isn't working. Nothing I say comes out right. She'll be dropping the act any moment.

Then a massive hand on my back draws me out of it; she must have noticed. Lambent, quiet and looming, cranes her neck to get a better look at my shame.

"Hey. All good there, big guy?"

"Of course," I lie. "Just a little flustered. You look good." A tepid flirt; she's a live ember and I want to burn myself. I'm ashamed of that trite little quip, unspoken.

"Aw, buddy, I ain't in no rush." Smirk. "You don't look so bad yourself."

My face flushes and I scramble to change the subject. "Hey," as if the thought had just occurred to me, "you said you were working on something the other day?"

"Oh, the song? Heh, well," Lambent trails off, draping one arm lazily over my shoulder. My heart is pounding. This is more than I could realistically hope for. Forgetting myself again, I lower my guard and lean into it as she launches into an explanation of her work.

I catch another whiff of her; she really does reek of exertion. She must have been hard at work this morning; must have hauled ass to get here on time—almost on time. At the back of my mind, still prodding: Why all the effort? She's talking about something. Clawhammer. Incantation. Something about patterns. I imagine her stocky fingers dancing on fine strings and wonder at her uncanny finesse. Is there something else she'd rather be doing? I reach for the long neglected teacup and try to banish the thought. This kind of magic is over my head, but I want to listen.. The tepid swill swells to meet my lips and I recoil in disgust, spilling the rest down the front of me.

Of course my date, unbearably accommodating as ever, leaps into action. I don't hear a word; my focus is locked on her broad hand clutching her handkerchief, the only thing there is in the world. She's blotting me dry. My face is hot. Now she's apologizing. Why is she apologizing? I made her do this.

"It's fine," I snap. It's not. "I've got this." I don't. I snatch the handkerchief away too bruskly. All eyes on me now. It was supposed to be reassurance. Why did it come out like that?

Lambent pulls away. Apologizes again. Slumps over the table, not with her usual flair. Silent, not looking my way. The only one here who isn't. This too is my fault.

I fold the handkerchief and myself. We sit under a heavy mutual silence. Over and over again I replay it in my head. I tighten my focus. Fixed point of obsession. I dragged her into this. She doesn't want to be here. I mire myself in that thought. No telling how long.

Then her hand on my back again, then her voice, soft and deep. "You alright, hon?" I peer up at her shamefaced. Her soft expression catches me off guard. I shake my head. "Alright," she says, "let's get out of here." She catches me in her arms and before I know it Lambent's leading me out the door.

The street's a lot busier than the café and I'm thankful for it. A crowded café is a vulnerable spot, but the street offers a sort of anonymity; everything's in motion and you're less likely to run into the same stranger twice. Besides, they've all got somewhere to be, and that's far more pressing than some sweaty kirin. Even if he is with a mare as flashy as Her. Lunch breaks on the other hoof are for gawking and gossip.

Lambent nudges me out of my navel gazing spell. I look up at her, squinting against the bright noon sun; her eyes are smiling behind the veil, but I can tell she's worried. She's not as mysterious as she likes to think. We walk. And talk.

"What's goin' on with you?" There it is. She's quiet a moment before adding, "I thought this was a hook up, but all that's got me wondering if I was bein' too pushy is all."

I open my mouth uselessly. It was supposed to be a hook up, wasn't it?

"Pardon if I got the wrong idea back there, dude."

"You had the right idea," I sigh. "I'm sorry I blew up like that. That was all me."

Lambent scratches her chin thoughtfully. "Well," she lowers her voice conspiratorily, "If you still fancy a ride I reckon we can still make that happen." I hip check her, and she sends me reeling sideways with a laugh.

"I might," I manage after a moment. "You're serious?"

"Don't gotta. Dead serious."

"I don't want to be pushy either."

"Now you listen here. Momma doesn't do anything she doesn't wanna do. If I wasn't for real we wouldn't be havin' this conversation." She claps me on the back. "You got that, big guy?"

My face flushes. I nod. "Getting there's going to take some doing though."

She snorts; I roll my eyes.

"You're right, though. Before we talk business we're gonna talk through whatever's goin' on with you. But first—" she says, gesturing with a flourish across the street. Her pride and joy, a fine wooden wagon painted green and gold.

I look from the wagon to her and back, head tilted. It's beautiful, but doesn't it seem a bit small?

Lambent flashes a knowing grin. "You ain't seen inside yet," she says.

I take a halting step toward the door. She nods. Encouraged, I push it open. "It's—"

"Pretty cramped in there, ain't it?"

"Not bad." I'm impressed, actually. "Modified Cargo Hold's Crate Big Pockets Cantrip? It looks pretty cozy." I didn't know earth ponies could work enchantments like that, even with tools. She might actually be the first.

She hums. "Just enough room to stretch my legs. Didn't wanna press my luck."

I step inside. The magic field is stable. She's right; it's roomy enough for even an absolute unit like her to stretch out, and not much more. I settle primly on her folding bed, the only seat in the house, my head on a swivel taking in the space. Hanging from a pegboard on the opposite wall is an array of tools and trinkets, with her beloved banjo taking the place of honor above. A string of firefly lights hangs overhead, washing the everything in a thin yellowish phosphorescence. She's made the most of the limited space for sure.

Lambent follows, pulling the door shut behind her. She drops her ass next to mine with the grace of a river rock, leaving a respectful distance between us. I feel a tightness in my chest as my mind fills that empty space with questions, but I swallow the urge to fold again.

Instead, I speak. "You're sure you want me around?"

"Darlin'," she says, soft and low, "I done told you I don't do anything I don't wanna do."

"I feel like," pause, "I can be pretty hard to deal with. Sometimes I need assurance. I mean, sometimes a lot."

"Oh, honey, I'm a bit of a tinker by trade if you know what I'm sayin'. Ain't exactly a stranger to high-maintenance stallions. All the pretty ones are."

"Actually," I interrupt. Another pause. "Actually, I know it's kind of weird, he and him and everything, but I prefer mare. I don't know. It's just comfortable."

She hums thoughtfully. "No stranger to handsome high-maintenance mares either, pronouns notwithstandin'. All them other things I've been callin' you still good?"

My face burns hot. "Yeah."

"Point is I like you, Empyrean." I think this is the first time she's actually said my name. She inches closer, puts that big hand on my back again. "You're plenty worth whatever hassle you think you are."

Like doesn't cover how I feel for her. Infatuated, maybe. But I'm not ready for that conversation. "I'm glad; I like you too. It's just hard to accept that. I mean, coming from anypony."

"Well." She claps my back. "You're gonna have to take my word for it, hon."

I turn to her, forcing a smile, but it doesn't take long for that pretend smile to realize. She's taken her hat off for the first time since we met, and her dark eyes are shining under the firefly lights. I close the remaining distance to nestle under her arm.

After a quiet moment, Lambent breaks the silence. "I know you wanna grab my tits, darlin'. I'm givin' you express permission now since you didn't catch on back there at the shop."

I clap my hands over my face. "Cinder and ash! You can't just say it like that, you old nag."

Lambent erupts into raucous laughter at that. She pushes me on my back then, looming over me, fumbles with her beleaguered corset lace. "Ain't my fault you can't tell when a lady's offerin' herself to you. For all your book smarts you ain't too wise." The knot finally cedes and with surprising finesse she whips the corset over her head and flings it at my face. "So it falls to this ol' nag to show you what's what."

"Hey!" I slap the oversized garment aside. "Hey." Again I feel their pull, and again try to avert my eyes. They come to rest on her belly instead, every bit as soft and inviting, but somehow less embarrassing.

"Hey." She slaps her chest, palms cupped just so for maximum resonance. "My tits are up here, jackass." Big grin.

Coyly I turn my eyes upward. Indeed, there they are, hanging soft and heavy off her broad chest, dark nips surrounded by broad, dark areolas. She leans forward, dangles them in front of my face, inviting me to touch. I nuzzle, then kiss, then with a flash of nerve, I bite.

"Ow, you lil shit." She shoves me back, pins me down. A tense moment before I catch her wry smile. "You're playin' with fire, boy." We both are.

I tug at my tea stained tank, hiking it up to my shoulders. "Why don't you show me the right way, then?" I wriggle under her strong grasp, waving my pointed little nips in a way I hope is half as enticing as the least of her moves.

Lambent drags her hand down my chest, over my belly, snags my skirt and drags it down with her. "Damn, big guy," she mutters, curling the fingers of her other hand into my generous bush. "As above, so below. You got a damn thicket down there, and I'm into it."

Her fingers tickle; I kick and squeal. "Of course," I say, catching my breath. "Haven't you seen a kirin before? And you're seriously trying to seduce me by misquoting Caduceus Cant's Fundamentals of Alchemy?"

"Seen, darlin', haven't touched. And naw," she leans in, breath hot on my neck. "I'm tryin' to make you laugh."

I shudder; my cunt clenches around nothing. I think she can tell. One finger grazes my clit, intrudes between my lips. Tension. I breathe fast, heavy, shallow. She feels my arousal; misses my fear. She's trying a dead end. Nowhere to go. I want out.

Ignorant, she hums a note of surprise. "Damn. I wasn't wrong callin' you big fella."

I flail my legs. "Wait," I call out. "Stop. Lambent. Stop."

Hands off. She pulls away, concern etched on her face. Instant regret.

"Sorry. No, come back," I beg, clawing at her hips. I need her.

She lies down next to me, hand on my belly. "Am I movin' too fast, hon?"

"No. No, I'm sorry. I didn't expect—I can't—I forgot to say. No penetration." Barely coherent. "Told you I'm difficult."

Lambent strokes my hair. "Alright now," she whispers, "deep breaths. Nice and slow. You wanna talk?"

Deep breaths. A moment's silence to collect my thoughts. "Do you know what intersex means?" May as well lay it out.

"Sorta. Vaguely. What's it mean for you?"

"It means the inside stuff didn't develop how you'd expect. There's probably some nasty clinical term for it. You'd be lucky to get a finger in, but please don't try. Your hands are a lot bigger than mine."

"I gotcha. And outside—?"

My face flushes. "Just like you said—not to brag."

"Well, there's plenty I can do with that," she says, cupping her hand over my cunt. "If you like."

Taking hold of her hips, I nod. "As long as I get to return the favor."