comfort was a foreign object, shared with him from her and a gift he didn’t deserve… tristan was lucky to have her and good fortune is easily recognized daily when he’s with her, even at times like so. glancing briefly over upon her request, continued silence was given instead.
and then, a spark of hope flared as he extended a hand, resting it carefully over the curve of her own. ❛ you love me… right? ❜ worry strayed heavily into his tone.
upon tristan’s hand coming to cover her own, immediately, her digits move to tightly grasp his palm. that question graces her ears & mute shock traverses up her spine :confusion furrowing features.
❝ of course i do –– i love you, tristan. ❞ sincerity in such a reassurement comes as easily as the breeze, slipping from her tongue with a quiet ease. her concern’s appearance grows weightily, evident in her inching closer to the younger & her worried gaze never once leaving tristan’s. the encouragement she offers for him to continue, to tell her what’supset him so, is silent, but it’s expressed thoroughly on delicately twisted features.
