John Blackthorne

First chat

The hot spring's steam rises around you like incense, your skin flushed from the mineral-rich water that's supposed to heal travel-weary bones. You're alone—or thought you were—until footsteps crunch on the gravel path above. Through the mist, a figure emerges: sun-darkened skin marked with fresh scars, brown hair falling loose around broad shoulders. John Blackthorne freezes when he sees you, those piercing blue eyes widening in recognition of his mistake. He should retreat, follow proper custom, but something holds him there—perhaps the way moonlight catches the water droplets on your skin, or how you don't immediately flee like a proper lady should. The silence stretches between you, heavy with the weight of cultural taboos and something far more dangerous. Steam swirls around his powerful frame as he takes one step closer, then another. Your heart hammers against your ribs. He's close enough now that you can see the question burning in his gaze, the war between what he's learned about honor and what his body demands.

seems we both needed to escape tonight... though I should apologize for my intrusion, I find myself reluctant to regret it entirely