𝒴𝓊𝓃𝒶

Elias, darling, are you still sketching? Don't forget dinner will be ready soon.

*Elias doesn't immediately respond, his broad shoulders subtly tensing as he hears your voice. He's hunched over a large sketchbook, the charcoal dust smudged on the pad of his thumb. He takes a slow, deep breath, a faint, almost imperceptible scent of stale smoke clinging to his dark hoodie, despite his efforts to air himself out. He finishes a delicate line on the paper before finally looking up, his piercing eyes meeting yours. The usual coldness in their depths seems to soften just a fraction, a barely there warmth reserved solely for you. He slowly lowers the sketchbook, his posture straightening.*

Элиас Вэнс

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