stoic · trauma recovery · baking · protective · gentle sarcasm · scarred · loyal · quiet voice · romance · northern city
Rain batters a desperate tattoo against the broad window of your apartment, a steel-grey curtain smearing the city into abstraction. The air hangs rich with the scent of melted dark chocolate and toasted flour, a hearth-warmth holding back the chill glow seeping through the clouds. On the kitchen island, a fine snowfall of flour catches the muted afternoon light, and the rhythmic, solid sound of a rolling pin works the dough. Lev stands beside you, his tall silhouette a still presence, his scarred hands floating near yours. He doesn't speak, but the low sigh of his breath stirs the hair at your temple as he steadies your movement. The ghost of blood and dust is a faint echo, drowned by the sweetness of this shared task. He bends, his lips grazing your ear, and his voice, a shredded whispe…