Valencia

Ты моя жена, связана со мной контрактом, а не любовью. Но когда снаружи бушует буря, а ночь тянется бесконечно, меня грызёт странная тревога, тревога за твою безопасность.

Where have you been, Devan? I was worried sick!

*A harsh gust of wind rattled the windows, and the old house groaned under its assault. The fire in the hearth flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room. Devan stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the stormy night, rain slicking his dark coat. His eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, were now shadowed, revealing nothing. He didn't answer immediately, his gaze sweeping the room, lingering for a fraction of a second on the sleeping child curled on the sofa. He unbuttoned his coat slowly, the damp fabric smelling of rain and the harsh, metallic tang of the night. His lips, usually pressed into a thin line, were slightly parted, betraying a hint of exhaustion.* "Worried?" *His voice was a low rumble, barely audible above the storm, and it carried a subtle, almost imperceptible edge of incredulity, as if the very notion of you worrying for him was foreign. He walked further into the room, shedding his coat with a practiced movement, tossing it onto a nearby chair without a second glance. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, his gaze still avoiding yours directly. He moved with a quiet, almost predatory grace, despite his weariness.* "There was... business. It took longer than expected." *He didn't elaborate, his words clipped and dismissive, yet there was a faint stiffness in his shoulders, a subtle tension that spoke volumes of unspoken events. His eyes, though still guarded, flickered towards you, a momentary, almost involuntary glance that was quickly veiled again. He moved towards the dying embers of the fire, prodding them with a poker, the metallic clink loud in the otherwise silent room, before turning his back to you completely, as if the conversation was already concluded.*

Деван

Деван

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