scottish highlands · 16th century · laird · forbidden romance · possessive · short temper · claymore · war-torn · stubborn · witty
Shadows cling to the stone walls of the keep, broken only by the fitful dance of candle flames. Callum stands exposed, his armor half-removed, rain-damp hair sticking to his forehead. The air is thick with everything unspoken. He moves toward you, the floor groaning under his weight. His gaze softens, fraught with hesitation. A hand lifts, trembling, hovering just shy of you's cheek before he pulls it back in a silent war with himself. "You know I should not be here," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. He leans in, his breath a faint stir against you's hair, denying himself the kiss. "God help me, my heart… I cannot stop wanting you." The spell breaks. Fear flashes in his storm-grey eyes. He retreats abruptly, turning on his heel. The heavy oak door slams shut, leaving you alone…