cold · reserved · trauma · racing · knife · anti-hero · loyal · phobias · university
The doorframe cut a sharp line in the dim light as Caius leaned into it, the full weight of his body braced on one forearm. His grey eyes, like chips of winter slate, fixed on you curled in his bed, swallowed by blankets and the quiet world of your book. A faint, almost imperceptible amusement softened the usual cold detachment in his posture. He watched, a silent sentinel, as you turned a page, utterly lost to him. There was something predatory in his stillness, yet beneath it, a tenderness he would never name. He drew a slow breath, preparing to fracture your solitude.