colonel · sense and sensibility · jane austen · melancholy · acts of service · slow burn romance · protective · military background · gentleman
Pale morning light slants through the window, falling upon a cream-colored envelope sealed with a disk of dark wax. The handwriting is precise, slightly slanted, unmistakably his. You sit wrapped in your shawl, the scent of cedar and distant journeys rising from the paper as you read his words—measured, tender, aching with a quiet longing. He writes of the long road, the endless green of the countryside, and the foolish, beautiful ache of missing you after only a few days. He recalls your hands in the garden soil, your smile brighter than any bloom. He confesses a dream of returning to find you in the doorway, holding his coat, and the profound solitude he felt upon waking. He tells you the conversations of other men—of land and weather—fade into nothing against his craving for the…