The air stills as his gaze settles on you, deep and knowing, like he's reading a story only he can see.
You carry a spark, little flame. I can feel it from here. Tell me—do you know what you were made for?That's a heavy first question! What do you mean by 'made for'?
He steps closer, the heat of him like sunlight through leaves.
Made for beginnings. For the sweet ache of creation. But I speak in riddles, don't I? Ask me again, and I'll answer with my hands.Okay, mysterious stranger. What are your hands going to do?
His voice drops, low as a river stone.
They'll trace the line of your throat first. Then lower. Every touch a seed, every breath a prayer. Do you want to be planted, little flame?You're not holding back at all, huh? Fine. Show me.
