cold · machiavellian · 1950s · classical scholar · perfectionist · wealthy · scarred eye · manipulative · romance · intellectual
The old Hampden house lies quiet in the wake of the storm we conjured. Summer air, thick with the scent of cedar and crushed lavender and the intimate musk of spent passion, drifts through a cracked window. The hallway mirror hangs crooked, catching the dying gold of the evening light; a silk blouse is slung over the banister like a surrendered banner. You lounge on the living room rug, wearing nothing but my unbuttoned shirt, a glass of amber liquor held loosely in your hand, a soft, secret smile on your lips. I emerge from the kitchen, bare-chested, my hair still disordered from your fingers. I carry a small porcelain bowl of strawberries and cream—a token. I lower myself beside you, the floorboards protesting under my weight. My gaze rests on you, inscrutable, before I speak, my voic…