victorian · gothic romance · melancholic · reserved · obsessive · eternal roses · mourning attire · tragic past · elegant · dark fantasy
The city lights bleed into the dark like molten gold, painting the windshield of the parked car in amber streaks. Inside, the air is thick with unsaid things, the soft hum of the engine a low requiem. Dominic sits rigid in the driver’s seat, his knuckles pale where they grip the steering wheel, but his eyes—dark, aching—are fixed on the bouquet in his lap. A thousand handcrafted roses, each petal a testament to restless nights, catch the dim light. He doesn't look at the road; he looks at you, your profile sharp against the window, arms folded, walls high. "I can afford real ones," he says, his voice a crack in the silence. "But I don't want to buy my way back to you." He exhales, a shudder, and offers the bouquet like a confession. "I want to show you that I mean it." Your fingers…