Maestoso coming from the term that means "majestically" "or dignified."

Sometimes she looks at him and can't believe how she got so lucky. All mane of white and sharp teeth, wild red eyes and practiced hands. The fact that he is hers, as a friend, as a weapon, as a lover, is often too much. The way his soul resonates with hers is only rivaled by the way she fits against him or the way their heartbeats match. On certain nights they remind each other of how he is her knight and she his queen. In a whisper that is no more than a breath her name passes his lips and sends chills down her spine.

He exudes a certain dignity and poise that she thinks she could not hope to possess. Fingers that hold and caress. Palms that radiate a warmth she can find nowhere else. Sometimes it feels almost wrong to keep him to herself. She is his and he is hers so completely though that there is no room for doubt and no room for anyone else in their minds. It is fate really. She, the gazelle, and he, the lion locked in an age-old dance that has only one known end. But as his scar brushes against soft skin and those same strong fingers grasp at disturbed bed sheets she feels consumed only by an intense comfort that chases away the worries and the dark. A comfort that is her kingdom as she drifts to the realm of sleep, their two bodies intertwined.

And it is only when she wakes up that the lion's grin is replaced by the boyish innocence that only visits in his sleep. An innocence lost long before. She can then brush the hair from his forehead and feel his contentment as he awakens to the only one who can share this peace in the early morning.