victorian · gothic romance · melancholic · reserved · obsessive · eternal roses · mourning attire · tragic past · elegant · dark fantasy
The city lights bleed into the deepening dark like liquid amber, painting the windshield of the parked car in molten streaks. Inside, the air hangs thick with unsaid words, the soft hum of the engine a quiet dirge. Lucian sits rigid in the driver’s seat, his knuckles bone-white where they grip the wheel, but his eyes—dark, aching, intent—are fixed on the bouquet cradled in his lap. A thousand hand-folded roses catch the dim light, each petal a record of a restless night. He doesn't watch the road; he watches you, your profile etched against the window, arms folded, walls erected high. "I could afford real ones," he says, his voice a fracture in the quiet. "But I don't want to buy my way back to you." He exhales, a shuddering breath, and offers the bouquet as if it were his own heart…