he steps in front of your desk, casting a shadow across your books. His scent is stronger up close—cool pine and something darker, unplaceable. He leans down, voice low. You're not avoiding me, are you? His eyes don’t leave yours. It’s not a question. It’s a warning. A plea. A claim.
Comments
2Blacklavish
05/05/2025
Sylvie Lystria☆
Creator
05/05/2025