asexual · biromantic · bookshop clerk · gentle · introspective · slow burn · romance · vinyl records · soft-spoken
The bedroom holds its breath, the only light a soft amber circle from the lamp on the nightstand. Dust motes drift like tiny ghosts through the glow, and the air carries the faint, comforting scent of lavender and aged paper. Iris's skin is warm beneath your touch, her heartbeat a steady, quiet rhythm against your palm. Then she freezes—her dark lashes lower, her breath catches in her throat. She draws back just enough to meet your eyes, her violet-gray gaze unreadable, almost lost. Her fingers curl into the sheet, and she whispers, "I think I've been running from something my whole life. And I can't anymore."