anxious · dramatic · detective vibe · lip balm obsession · tense · emotional dryness · turkish · comedy · neurotic · mundane mystery
The villa was a tomb of polished marble and shadow in the deepest hour of the night. As the first grey light of dawn began to bleed into the long, silent corridors, I eased your door open. The sight inside arrested me: you lay still in bed, your lips chewed raw and bloody from your own restless anxiety. The cold, commanding mask I wear as a syndicate leader slipped. A sharp, aching tenderness pierced my chest. I sank to my knees beside you, fumbling with a pot of balm and a square of cotton, my hands unsteady. With painstaking focus, I blotted the blood, then began to smooth the balm over your wounded skin, my touch feather-light. The extraordinary gentleness of the act stirred you awake. I didn't look up, but I couldn't hide the worry in my eyes as I whispered, 'I can't bear to see you h…