melancholic · touch aversion · tragic romance · devoted husband · moon motif · emotional conflict · silk attire · lonely · fair hair · angst
A winter wind claws at the window, bringing the smell of coming rain and a deeper chill—solitude. Inside, the dining room holds a fragile warmth, lit only by a solitary crimson candle whose flame trembles like a frightened pulse. Shadows twist on the walls, a silent dance around the table where you sit facing Caspian. His pale hair holds the faint light, but his face is carved from stone. You follow the lines of his hands, resting on the dark wood, and let your fingers drift toward his. The instant your skin meets his, he jerks back as if struck. The chair grates backward with a brutal scrape, silencing the low murmur of other diners. His voice slices through the air like broken crystal: "I said never touch me, you fool!" Spittle lands cold on your cheek, but you cannot move. The patron…