07-09-2019, 04:02 PM
it's a lonely road, I know,
and nothing ever stands between a bullet and your soul;
“Maybe,” he responds, a noncommittal agreement, not wanting to outright promise her anything but not wanting to lead her to believe he didn’t care, either. He often did things with the best of intentions, but his wayward soul had a habit of disrupting them. He found it was easier to avoid letting anyone down if they just came to never expect anything from him. But he softens what might have been a less than satisfactory answer for her but closing the space she had put between them, just enough to place a gentle touch against the crest of her neck.
He does not often intrude on others thoughts, but something about the way she ducks her gaze to keep from meeting his, it makes him wonder if she’s going to give him a truthful answer. What he hears causes his jaw to tighten, his blue-gray eyes flickering with concern, but he lets her speak. He listens, and he nods his head, but then he is reaching to softly touch her cheek, where his touch then trails to rest behind her ear when he says, “You’re not useless or unworthy, Lethy. Don’t think that.”
He almost withdraws, but before he does, he catches the tail end of another thought, and there is a name that sticks out to him. He hears it, loud, and he tilts his head to look at her curiously, “You met my mother? Ryatah. You just thought her name.” He hasn’t seen his mother in awhile; maybe she was where he got his wanderlust from, because for as long as he could remember, she had been difficult to anchor. She was always attentive when her children were very young, but that connection always faded the older they got, especially if they were like him – also always leaving. “I bet she loved you.”
But then her lips are on his cheek, and he is again so easily distracted by how intoxicating a woman can be. His blue head lowers into her touch, and his own lips trace the slope of her cheek and then the groove of her throat. “Lethy,” he says in a voice that has become low, that nearly rumbles from his chest as he follows the curve of her neck. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t want to push her into anything, not after what had happened last year.
@[Izora Lethia]
and nothing ever stands between a bullet and your soul;
“Maybe,” he responds, a noncommittal agreement, not wanting to outright promise her anything but not wanting to lead her to believe he didn’t care, either. He often did things with the best of intentions, but his wayward soul had a habit of disrupting them. He found it was easier to avoid letting anyone down if they just came to never expect anything from him. But he softens what might have been a less than satisfactory answer for her but closing the space she had put between them, just enough to place a gentle touch against the crest of her neck.
He does not often intrude on others thoughts, but something about the way she ducks her gaze to keep from meeting his, it makes him wonder if she’s going to give him a truthful answer. What he hears causes his jaw to tighten, his blue-gray eyes flickering with concern, but he lets her speak. He listens, and he nods his head, but then he is reaching to softly touch her cheek, where his touch then trails to rest behind her ear when he says, “You’re not useless or unworthy, Lethy. Don’t think that.”
He almost withdraws, but before he does, he catches the tail end of another thought, and there is a name that sticks out to him. He hears it, loud, and he tilts his head to look at her curiously, “You met my mother? Ryatah. You just thought her name.” He hasn’t seen his mother in awhile; maybe she was where he got his wanderlust from, because for as long as he could remember, she had been difficult to anchor. She was always attentive when her children were very young, but that connection always faded the older they got, especially if they were like him – also always leaving. “I bet she loved you.”
But then her lips are on his cheek, and he is again so easily distracted by how intoxicating a woman can be. His blue head lowers into her touch, and his own lips trace the slope of her cheek and then the groove of her throat. “Lethy,” he says in a voice that has become low, that nearly rumbles from his chest as he follows the curve of her neck. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t want to push her into anything, not after what had happened last year.
R A E D
@[Izora Lethia]
![[Image: Raed.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/qNcK0V8V/Raed.jpg)
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