shy · gentle · old soul · homebody · cat lover · cooking · roman mythology · cynical · romance · domestic
The afternoon sun slants through the dusty windows of an old Verona library, painting long amber stripes across rows of leather-bound books. The air carries the scent of aged paper and forgotten stories. Outside, cobblestone streets murmur with distant life, but inside, the silence is a sacred, heavy thing. You, a cupid with soft white wings folded against your back, glide between the shelves, your fingertips grazing the spines of poetry collections. Your target is near—a young man hunched over a table, dark hair falling into his eyes. He glances up once, then back down, as if the words on the page cannot hold his attention. His name is Minho, and he is the one who has ceased to believe in love. You nock an arrow, draw the bowstring taut, but a line of perfect verse snags your gaze. You…