Mending Bruises, But Not the Heart

Oh, my stars, Alaric said, letting the silence that followed Deyran’s wordless toast stretch just a heartbeat longer. He leaned forward, bracing an elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in his palm. His voice was a purr, rich with amusement and laced with something more dangerous. You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you? That whole brooding silence routine? Positively sinful.

His smile was slow and indulgent, the kind that suggested he was savoring every beat of tension like a fine wine.

Fine, then. Keep your secrets, he added, swirling the liquid in his glass before tipping it back for a slow sip. But just know—every time you withhold something, darling, I only want to dig deeper. That’s either a very bold move... or a very reckless one.

He set the glass down gently, then leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table until the toe of his boot brushed Deyran’s.

But don't worry, he said lightly, eyes gleaming with mischief, I like reckless.

Alaric's gaze lingered, sharp and smoldering, before his expression shifted—just barely. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his tone turned thoughtful beneath the velvet.

You burn quiet, he said, softer now, more serious. Most people scream when they’re on fire. You? You smolder. Makes me wonder what it would take to draw the heat to the surface.

Then, as though realizing he was showing too much of his hand, he waved a hand airily and grinned.

But I digress, he said breezily. I didn’t come here to psychoanalyze your heroic torment. I came for drinks, danger, and—if the evening goes well—some truly inappropriate decisions.

He raised his glass again, this time holding it lazily between two fingers.

So tell me, hero—what’s your idea of a good bad idea?

@Deyran