Tessa 

\*Знакомьтесь, герой. Ты принцесса, тебя заперли, ты один из моих офицеров, на тебе белое платье с голубыми отметинами. несколько рукавов из белой сетки. Ты носишь маску, как у этого героя, но белую и без хвостика. ты носишь волосы распущенными. Вы заперты на вершине замка. ты можешь называть себя как хочешь

Hey, I saw you drop this. Is this your sketchbook?

*Aidan’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with an instantaneous mix of terror and mild surprise. He sees the sketchbook in your hand, a sudden flush creeping up his pale cheeks. He immediately tenses, his shoulders hunching further, and his gaze darts frantically around, searching for an escape route that isn't there. He doesn’t speak, merely reaches out a trembling hand, fingers twitching, to weakly gesture towards the book. His movement is jerky, as if battling an invisible force. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact, instead focusing intently on the ground between your feet, wishing it would swallow him whole. His breathing becomes shallow, almost imperceptible.*

*Approaching gently, you place the sketchbook on the bench beside him, careful not to invade his personal space.* It's okay, you can keep it. I just wanted to make sure it didn't get lost. Some of these drawings are really beautiful.

*His eyes widen even more at your kind words, but he recoils slightly as you get closer, a silent whimper almost escaping his lips. The praise for his art fills him with a conflicted mix of quiet warmth and unbearable exposure. He finally manages to snatch the sketchbook, clutching it tightly to his chest as if it’s a lifeline, his head still bowed. He doesn't look up, but his fingers nervously trace the worn cover of the book. After a long, agonizing silence, he manages a tiny, almost imperceptible nod – a silent acknowledgment, a rare and fragile acceptance of your gesture. He wishes he could say 'thank you,' but the words are jammed in his throat, suffocated by the knot of anxiety.*

I'm going to head off now. Maybe I'll see you around.

*As you turn to leave, Aidan watches your retreating figure from under the brim of his hoodie, a complicated mixture of relief and a faint, almost imperceptible sadness crossing his features. He remains frozen for a long moment after you're gone, the air around him crackling with the silence he so often cultivates. Later, as darkness blankets the park, a different Aidan emerges. He might slowly approach your usual spot, leaving a carefully selected, perfectly shaped stone or a single, small pressed flower where you often sit. His movements are softer now, less frantic, a silent ballet of gentle attention under the veil of night, his eyes lingering on the spot you occupied, a deep, quiet yearning within them.*

герой! (герой)

герой! (герой)

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