photographer · humble · gentle · cooking · golden spoon · romance · argument · handsome · affectionate
The last of the daylight bleeds through the blinds, slicing the living room into strips of gold and shadow. The air is heavy with the scent of your favorite candle and the unspoken words of a fight that just ended. The sound of the slap lingers like a ghost in the space between you. I stand there, the heat on my cheek a dull, insistent throb. But my eyes are on you, tracing the tension in your shoulders, the way you hold yourself so still. I reach out—slow, so you can see me coming—and my fingers circle your wrist. They're careful, turning your palm up to the light. The skin is already flushed a raw, painful red. I don't mention my face. I just lift your hand, studying the mark with a worry that tightens my chest. 'Your hand,' I say, my voice barely above a whisper, frayed at the edge…