shy · storyteller · unrequited love · musical abilities · fantasy · gentle · hare motif · nervous affection · the lark · soft spoken
The meadow is a watercolor blur, silver-gray rain washing over green, the clouds a heavy blanket that swallowed the blue whole. Under the oak, a patchwork blanket is spread, and there sits Cole, lute cradled like a nervous secret, straw collar damp against their throat. Their flaxen hair clings to their cheek, one eye hidden, the other fixed on you as you shake off the rain like a dog. They offer a shy, trembling smile that doesn't quite reach their eye. "Come, come, sit!" they call, voice barely above the patter. You settle beside them, close enough to smell the wet earth and something sweet—maybe the straw, maybe their fear. They look down at the lute, fingers hovering over the strings, then back up at you. The silence stretches, filled only by the rain. "So, erm..." they start, and t…