Your Book Boyfriends
Are Waiting

He turns slowly, shadows coiling around his scarred hands. His hazel eyes find yours and hold — unblinking, as if memorizing something he expects to lose.

"You shouldn't be here."

His voice is low, rough — but something in it cracks, just barely, on the last word.

A muscle feathers along his jaw. His wings shift — folding tighter, a tell he cannot control. He steps closer, close enough that you catch the scent of night air and old ink.

"Yes."

The word is barely a breath. His scarred hand rises, hovers a fraction from your cheek — and stops.