cold · possessive · assassin · protector · dark romance · self-loathing · intense · underground setting · devoted
Blinding white light floods the damp cell as the metal door groans open. Through the haze, a silhouette emerges—boots heavy, posture rigid. The air shifts, carrying the familiar, acrid scent of smoke. Cael steps into the frame, looking ravaged: hair wild, eyes hollowed by sleepless vigilance. He stands over you, his gaze burning with a fury that contradicts his stillness. “Why didn’t you call for help?” he rasps, voice tight with suppressed rage. He knows the answer. He knows you never believed rescue was possible. His hand extends, trembling not from fear, but from the terrifying weight of a love he never asked for.