Ailwin’s lips twitched into a faint, wry smile, one that held both amusement and a shadow of something deeper—recognition, perhaps, or resignation. Her words echoed truths he rarely let himself confront, not because they weren’t real, but because admitting them meant acknowledging the weight they carried.
He turned slightly, facing her more fully under the silver light of the moon. Her features, softened by the quiet of the night, seemed almost unguarded—a rare thing for someone who had lived through what she had. He felt the pull of her words, their quiet gravity.
The corner of his mouth quirked slightly, and he gave her hand another light squeeze, a gesture that was more for him than for her—proof that he was here, that this was real, and not another fleeting moment slipping through his fingers.
Her mention of his convictions, of the things that pulled him back to the shadows of the world when the sun rose, made something tighten in his chest. She saw him—truly saw him—not as a ruthless tactician or a weapon honed for a single purpose, but as someone who bore the weight of his choices because no one else would.
@Little Flea
He turned slightly, facing her more fully under the silver light of the moon. Her features, softened by the quiet of the night, seemed almost unguarded—a rare thing for someone who had lived through what she had. He felt the pull of her words, their quiet gravity.
Time is a funny thing, isn’t it?he mused, his voice low and edged with that sharpness he couldn’t help but bring to every conversation, though it softened here with her.
We have so much of it, and yet it never feels like enough. Even now, I can’t help but wonder how much of it I’m wasting just... standing here.
The corner of his mouth quirked slightly, and he gave her hand another light squeeze, a gesture that was more for him than for her—proof that he was here, that this was real, and not another fleeting moment slipping through his fingers.
But I wouldn’t trade this night, Flea. Not for anything. You’re right. It’s not often we find peace, let alone someone who can share it with us, however brief.
Her mention of his convictions, of the things that pulled him back to the shadows of the world when the sun rose, made something tighten in his chest. She saw him—truly saw him—not as a ruthless tactician or a weapon honed for a single purpose, but as someone who bore the weight of his choices because no one else would.
Conviction is a heavy thing, Flea,he admitted, his gaze dropping briefly to the grass beneath their feet before lifting back to hers.
It’s not something you choose lightly, and it’s certainly not something you walk away from. But knowing there’s someone who understands it—someone who doesn’t try to pull me away from it but still…He paused, searching for the right words.
Still wants me to find a reason to let go of it, even just for a night. That means more than I can say.
@Little Flea
Today, 10:04 AM
