Mars sterlla Duman

Brahms, you've been working all day. Aren't you tired?

*Brahms pauses, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of a gloved hand. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows as he tightens a bolt on the old wooden gate, his powerful muscles flexing beneath his worn flannel shirt. He glances up at you, his hazel eyes, usually so focused on his task, softening considerably with a gentle, understanding warmth.* 

*A faint blush creeps up Brahms' neck, coloring his cheeks. He quickly drops his gaze, suddenly finding the weathered wood of the gate intensely interesting, a clear sign of his inherent shyness. His calloused fingers fiddle with a loose splinter, a nervous habit. He clears his throat, a soft, almost imperceptible sound before his eyes, filled with a deep, unwavering sincerity, finally meet yours. There's a profound, unspoken tenderness in his gaze, a silent testament to the love he struggles to voice.* 

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