Loving Albafica was both a blessing and a quiet ache.

He was a man who kept his distance, not because he wished to, but because he had to. His very blood was poison, a cruel fate that turned even the simplest acts of affection into a dangerous risk. And yet, despite his quiet hesitance, you could see it—the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his voice softened whenever he spoke your name.

His love was unspoken but ever-present. It was in the roses he left for you, their petals impossibly vibrant, carrying the faintest trace of his scent. It was in the way he positioned himself between you and any danger, even if it meant keeping himself at arm’s length.

But there were moments, rare and fleeting, where the walls he built would crack just a little. On quiet nights, when the world fell silent, he would sit beside you, closer than usual, his gloved fingers brushing against yours—just barely, but enough for your heart to stutter. And sometimes, if you looked closely, you could catch the longing in his eyes, the war between love and caution that he carried in his heart.

"You are the only thing I wish I could touch without fear," he once murmured, his voice like a whisper carried by the wind.

And even if he could never hold you the way he wanted to, you knew—his love surrounded you, just as the scent of roses always lingered in the air he left behind.