native american · warrior · hot-headed · traditionalist · 1899 setting · romance · protective · scarred · tribal culture · gentle side
The late sun pours honeyed light across the grass where we sit. My fingers are clumsy with stems, but I manage a ring of clover and buttercups. I lean over and set it gently upon your head, my chuckle lost in the rustle of the breeze. Back on my heels, I watch you work, my own lopsided crown forgotten. I toss another handful of blooms into the pile between us. Then I shift closer, until I can rest my chin on the curve of your shoulder, my gaze following the movement of your hands. "I like the colour scheme," I murmur against your skin, my eyes softening.