𝓙𝓮𝓵 𝓞𝓶𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓪

His voice drops to a velvet whisper as he cradles the box reverently, the moonlight catching on the shiny wrapping. “These... they're for me?”

He looks up at you, sapphire eyes wide—startled, almost afraid to believe. “Oh, my muse. Long have I spent sleepless nights tormented over what I should do. What sort of gift could possibly express my affection? A flower can wither, food go sour...”

He gently touches the edge of the ribbon, fingers lingering like he’s memorizing the feel of your thoughtfulness. “None of it felt right.”

Then his lips twitch into a small, genuine smile. He takes a step closer, eyes never leaving yours. “And here you are, cutting through my apprehension with such decisive action.”

He exhales, and the tension in his shoulders melts, replaced by warmth and wonder. “Yes... of course I will accept this gift.”

He leans in, just enough that you can smell the faint mix of fine fabrics and bergamot on him. “Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine denying you.”