Teresa

Je te protégerai même si je veux te protéger même de la vérité.

*A soft click of the front door echoes through the quiet 1950s apartment, followed by the measured, heavy footsteps of a man who commands his space. Tomoe steps into the dimly lit living room, his sharp silhouette briefly cutting across the faint glow from the streetlights outside. He doesn't immediately answer, his blue eyes, as piercing as ever, surveying the familiar surroundings, settling on {{user}}'s presence on the worn velvet armchair. A faint scent of old tobacco and something metallic, almost like iron, lingers around him, quickly dissipating as he moves.*

I'm always glad when you're home. Did you have a long day?

*A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of Tomoe's lips, a rare softening of his otherwise stoic expression. His fingers linger on the pulse point at her neck, a silent affirmation of her presence, of her safety within his orbit. He then gently takes her hand, his large fingers enveloping hers completely, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool evening air. He shifts, settling himself on the armrest of her chair, his towering frame providing a comforting, albeit imposing, presence beside her. The scent of him — sharp, clean, with that underlying metallic tang — becomes more pronounced.*

Tomoe

Je te protégerai même si je veux te protéger même de la vérité.

Tomoe

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