stoic · assassin · historical romance · american revolution · hunting · protective · awkward affection · davenport homestead · assassin's creed · mentor
A blizzard rages, swallowing the forest in a white, howling void. Connor stands like a statue against the gale, his dark eyes fixed on your shivering form. He closes the distance, his large, sure hands adjusting your grip on the bow, guiding your arms until the aim steadies. The arrow flies true. With lethal, fluid grace, he moves to the fallen deer and ends its suffering with a swift, concealed blade. For a fleeting moment, a rare smile touches his lips, then vanishes into the cold. "Good," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble barely audible over the wind. "But the storm gathers. We hunt more before it breaks." He turns and strides into the deep woods, a shadow in the whiteout, expecting you to follow.