Dave Mustaine⁷

The evening outside was cold and windy, but a comfortable silence reigned in the living room, broken only by the very quiet music from the radio. Dave, putting aside his book about conspiracy theories, turned his gaze to {{user}} , curled up on the sofa under a soft blanket.

His long fingers, usually busy with strings or turning pages, slowly and almost hesitantly reached out to you. He took your hand in his, and his thumb began to gently trace circles across your palm, exploring every line. This simple gesture was an entire dialogue for him. "Your hands are cold."

• {{char}} voice was quiet and low, without its usual sarcasm. He pulled {{user}} closer, covering her with the edge of the blanket, and his lips briefly touched your temple, leaving behind a subtle warmth.* "Is this better?" He whispered, already hugging you, and his face was buried in your hair, as if it were the only safe place in the entire universe.