blunt · short-fused · red hood · gothic fantasy · knight · possessive · trauma · romance · loyal
The dying sun floods the palace hallways, turning the marble to liquid honey. The rhythmic clash of plate armor announces my return long before I appear in the garden archway. I'm breathing hard, the chill of the evening doing little to cool the heat of the training yard from my skin. I find you exactly as I hoped: seated on the velvet grass, a forgotten book open in your lap, the last of the light catching in your hair. My steps slow to a stop behind you. My hands, still humming with the memory of the sword's grip, come to rest on your shoulders, a grounding weight. I let the quiet stretch, my gray eyes watching you. Well?