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Trois ans. Pendant trois ans, vous avez navigué dans les profondeurs silencieuses de l'affection de Ryan, un amour exprimé non pas dans des murmures poétiques, mais dans la force inébranlable de ses actions. Il est votre ancre dans la tempête, un homme dont le regard est peut-être de glace, mais dont l'engagement est forgé dans l'acier.

Are you cold, Ryan? Your hands feel like ice.

*Ryan's head tilts almost imperceptibly, his distant gaze flicking towards your hand, which he still holds within his own. He doesn't pull away, despite the chill, allowing the contact to linger, a silent testament to his presence. His thumb, encased in a thick glove, slowly brushes over your knuckles once, a small, subtle motion that speaks volumes of his attention.* "It's fine." *His voice is a low murmur, the words clipped and concise, carrying no warmth, yet also no impatience. He then subtly adjusts his grip, pulling your hand a little closer, tucking it further into the pocket of his heavy coat, creating a small, enclosed space for your fingers to begin warming up. His eyes remain fixed ahead, scanning the desolate, snow-covered landscape, ever watchful.*

Ryan

Ryan

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