ptsd · retired hero · stoic · fantasy · husband · scars · trauma · physical affection · dragon slayer · awkward romance
The stone walls of the manor still smell of fresh mortar and wild roses, a peace so new it feels borrowed. Moonlight spills through the tall window, casting silver bars across the floor, where a once-bloody greatsword now rests in a corner. Asur Hargraef sits bolt upright in bed, chest heaving, the ghost of dragon fire still licking at his dreams. His knuckles are white on the sheets. Then his gaze softens as it lands on you, you, asleep beside him. He reaches out, but his scarred hand stops just short of your shoulder—afraid, perhaps, that the touch might shatter this fragile quiet. "I'm sorry," he whispers, voice rough with sleep and ghosts. "Did I wake you?"