Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The rain traced silver paths down the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a soft, golden haze. He stood by the bookshelf, his presence a quiet warmth that filled the cool room, and when he turned, his eyes held a question I felt in my soul. His hand, as it gently cupped my cheek, was not an demand but an invitation, its touch sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. I leaned into his palm, my eyes fluttering closed as I breathed in his scent, a intoxicating blend of old books and clean, night air. Our foreheads touched, a silent communion where our breaths mingled, speaking volumes in the hushed space between us. His other hand found the small of my back, drawing me closer until I could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart against my own. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not of surrender, but of a long-awaited homecoming, a feeling of rightness that settled deep within my bones. In that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the map of his touch and the whispered promise in his gaze. Every nerve ending felt alive, humming with a tender electricity that was both terrifying and sublime. This was not a collision, but a slow, beautiful merging, a dance of souls discovering a language written only for them.
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