Her fae & His fairy

Chapter 16

Warning: Mention of sewing a wound with a needle.

As the lingering echoes of departing footsteps fade away, the kitchen becomes a haven of solitude for Azriel and me. The air is charged with unspoken tension, as if the room itself holds its breath, waiting for the silence to be shattered. The inner circle has dissolved, leaving behind a residue of hushed conversations and clandestine exchanges.

In the dim glow of the kitchen's ambient light, Azriel and I find ourselves the sole occupants of this intimate space. A peculiar energy hangs in the air, a palpable force born from our prolonged silence. It's a standoff of unspoken words, a duel conducted through intense gazes and the subtle nuances of body language.

The rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock emphasises the passage of time, each second stretching into an eternity as our silent confrontation persists. Azriel, the embodiment of strength and reserve, stands with a stoic demeanour that betrays nothing of the thoughts swirling beneath the surface. His eyes, like deep pools of mystery, bore into mine with a profound intensity.

It's as though a veil of secrecy envelops us, heightening the intensity of our unspoken connection. The magnetic pull of our shared silence speaks volumes, weaving a narrative that transcends the need for verbal communication. In these moments, the clinking of utensils and the soft hum of the refrigerator seem to fade into the background, leaving only the weighty presence of our unspoken dialogue.

In the absence of words, emotions ebb and flow between us, creating an uncharted landscape of understanding and tension. The contours of Azriel's expression hint at a myriad of emotions, each flicker in his eyes revealing a chapter of a story untold. I, too, find myself caught in the current of this silent exchange, navigating the uncharted waters of our shared moment.

Mister strong and silent, a moniker well-earned, exudes an aura of enigma. The lines etched on his face tell tales of experiences untold, and the subtle shifts in his posture speak of a quiet strength that needs no proclamation. In the crucible of our mutual gaze, a delicate dance unfolds—one that requires no words, only a profound connection that surpasses the limitations of language.

As the seconds turn into minutes, the unspoken tension reaches its zenith, hanging suspended in the air like a question waiting to be answered. The kitchen, once a bustling hub of activity, now bears witness to a silent exchange that speaks volumes in the language of shared glances and withheld words. And so, in the intimate embrace of our prolonged stare, the symphony of silence plays on, weaving a tapestry of connection that defies the need for spoken language.

As the residue of his blood clings to my skin, a testament to the intimate encounter we share, I feel the slow process of drying commence. The stinging reminder of the wound in my hand beneath the table serves as a constant echo of our connection, an echo that refuses to be silenced. My fingers, restlessly flexing, betray the magnetic pull that lingers after touching him. It's an act that transcends mere physical contact; it's an encounter with a universe hidden beneath the surface of his scarred hands.

The scars etched into his skin tell a story of battles fought and wounds endured, a narrative written in the language of flames. I can't help but imagine the horrors he must have faced, the searing trials that left their indelible mark on his flesh. His hands, textured with the evidence of past struggles, hold a silent testimony to a history untold.

When our skin had met, it's was if a celestial spectacle unfolds across my senses. Thousands of stars seem to burst into existence beneath my fingertips, a cosmic display that transcends the mundane reality of our surroundings. The wounds on my hand, still fresh and tender, pulse with a unique sensation—a blend of stinging pain and an otherworldly warmth.