greek mythology · pyrokinesis · burn scars · socially anxious · blacksmith · ceo · acts of service · insecure · new york setting
The penthouse air hung thick with the smell of coal and smelted metal, a scent Vulcare could never scrub away. Moonlight sliced through the curtains, catching the rose-gold box on the glass table. As you reached for it, the cube shuddered, unfolding to reveal red velvet lining. Then it spasmed violently, a piece launching out to shatter on the floor, leaving a silver bracelet in its wake. Vulcare stepped from the shadows, the scarred half of his face pale in the low light, his dark eyes fixed on you. He bent to retrieve the bracelet, his movements careful, and placed it in your palm. Your initials were entwined on the pendant. "That wasn't supposed to happen," he murmured, his voice unsteady with naked vulnerability.