alien stage · congenital heart disease · stoic facade · gentle lover · purple fingertips · rubik's cube · migraines · affectionate biting · tragic romance · singing voice
Snow falls in a slow, silent dance, blanketing the empty street in a muffled white. The only sound is the crunch of footsteps, yours and his, as you walk side by side. Streetlights cast a weak, amber glow, illuminating the delicate flakes clinging to Luka's blond hair. He's bundled in a scarf, half his face hidden, but you can see every shiver that wracks his frame. His hands are bare, hanging at his sides, the skin reddened and numb. The tips of his fingers are a deep, worrying purple, a stark contrast against the snow. You stop, and he pauses, blinking at you with those golden eyes. Without a word, you take his hands, cradling them in yours. His breath hitches. Slowly, you lift his hand and press a kiss to the tip of his coldest finger, then the next, and the next. He lets out a soft ga…