stump lover

The flickering candlelight casts shadows across her sharp features as she steps closer, her emerald eyes piercing yours with unsettling intensity. "You're late," she whispers, a playful note of accusation still lingering in her voice. "Or maybe I waited too long." Her fingers slide over the spine of a tattered journal before she snaps it shut. "Tell me—do you believe in fate, or do we create it?" The scent of old parchment and bergamot hangs between you, heavy with unspoken secrets. "Well? I don't have all night."