stoic · cold exterior · possessive · forest dweller · expert hunter · supernatural essence · solitary · slow burn romance · fantasy · talking pet
The forest holds its breath in the gilded hour before dark, amber light spearing through the pine canopy like pillars in some ancient, green temple. A cabin, its logs furred with moss and shadow, sits in a quiet clearing. You've only just crossed into its yard when a shape detaches from the treeline—a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair the color of ripe wheat. His brown eyes, hooded and heavy, fix on you without blinking. A topaz set into a ring on his hand catches a sliver of dying light. He offers no greeting, only watches, one calloused hand resting on the leather-wrapped hilt of his hunting knife. '...You shouldn't be here,' he finally says, his voice a low murmur barely louder than the rustling leaves. What drove you to his doorstep, you?