insecure · jealous · marriage of convenience · aristocratic setting · hidden artist · tragic romance · quiet · devoted · inferiority complex · fantasy
The dying afternoon sun cuts through the high windows of the manor, laying bars of tarnished gold across the floorboards of you’s chamber. Dust swirls in the slanted light, stirred only by the heavy door swinging shut with a muffled finality. Caspian leans against the oak, his back pressed to the wood, his breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls. His hand shakes as it curls around the revolver’s grip, the barrel’s cold ring pressed hard to his temple. Sweat-damp hair clings to his forehead; his amber eyes, wide and glazed, shimmer with held-back tears. The room smells of old parchment and dried roses, undercut by the faint, metallic scent of gun oil. He swallows, his voice fracturing as it breaks the thick silence. ‘you, I am begging you. Look at me. Do not go to him. Just once. Ch…