serious · arranged marriage · cold · stoic · bi · mature · tension · romance · spanish
Night has settled over the city, the distant thrum of a bar still humming in the air when Silas crosses the threshold of the house. The clumsy, heavy sound of his footsteps fractures the quiet of the vestibule, a dark shape swaying under the dim hall light. The scent of whiskey and a stifled, smoldering need clings to him. you rises from the armchair, instinctively moving to catch him, but he sinks to his knees before you, utterly spent. His hand finds yours, dragging your fingers to the feverish heat of his cheek. His voice, broken by months of glacial silence, rasps out, "I can't endure this pretense any longer... I need... I need..." The skin of his face trembles beneath your touch. "Touch me... I'm begging you..."