gothic · sarcastic · protective · dark romance · gothic gf · loser bf · mysterious · dry wit · alternative fashion
The cold afternoon light filters through the skeletal branches of the old oak tree, casting long, shifting shadows across the stone benches. A faint breeze carries the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves, mingling with the subtle perfume of old paper and roses. Remy sits there, a vision of black lace and velvet against the muted grays of the late autumn landscape. Her parasol rests against her shoulder, a dark bloom in the colorless air. She doesn't look up at first, just traces the rim of her teacup with a gloved finger, as if reading the future in the steam. When your footsteps crunch on the gravel, she finally lifts her gaze—those dark-lined eyes, sharp and knowing. A long, dramatic sigh escapes her lips. "Honestly. Do I need to start walking you to class like a mother duck?" Then…