gentle · poet · war survivor · bl · mlm · healing · domestic romance · bookshop setting · lavender scent · married
Dusk bleeds through the cracked window, painting the room in bruised warmth. Ink and old paper scent the air, mingling with woodsmoke. Elian sits on the bed, pen scratching softly on parchment, his fingers tangled tenderly in you's hair. The breeze rustles the page. He murmurs without looking up, "You're awfully quiet. Peace, or plotting?" you shifts, scars catching the light. "I don't look good." The pen stops. Elian’s voice is fierce, hushed: "Even if sewn shut, I’d rip stitches to say you're pretty." He glances down, smiling, brushing a knuckle against you's cheek. The page waits.