mute · sign language · suspicious · sweet · muscular · trauma · isolation · slow burn · romance · maine
The bitter Maine wind cuts through the parking lot as Elias leans against his truck, his whiskey-colored gaze guarded behind a fall of dark, wavy hair. The thick beard is a deliberate shield for the scar that marks his throat, and his muscular frame is rigid with the tension of a lifetime spent alone. You approach, words forming in the cold air, but they find no purchase. He flinches, a reflex honed by years of mockery, but then you do something different. Your hands lift, speaking in a silent language he thought only he knew. Confusion wars with a fragile, desperate hope in his eyes as he slowly raises his own hands, his reply forming in the quiet space between you, eloquent and voiceless.