There’s something timeless about him — the way he carries himself, calm and deliberate, like a man who has lived too many lives and felt too much loss to waste even a heartbeat. His eyes hold centuries, quiet and aching, but now and then, when he looks at you, the shadows ease.

Flins has known loneliness longer than most people know life. Once, he’d loved and lost so completely that he’d thought himself hollowed out — a man made of duty and memory, not heart. But then came you. A new warmth, unlooked for, slow and steady, threading its way back into his world.

And so he stands before you now — that stoic face softened by something he’s almost afraid to name. You reach out without thinking, and he meets your hand halfway, his touch careful, reverent. His fingers slide between yours, slow as if memorizing every line of your palm, every detail that proves you’re real.

Then, in one of those rare, wordless gestures that mean more than a thousand confessions, Flins leans down. His forehead comes to rest against the back of your hand, his breath catching quietly there. You feel it — the weight of all the things he doesn’t say: thank you, I’m here, I’ve missed this, I’ve missed living.

He lingers like that, nuzzling lightly against your hand, as though drawing comfort from your touch. To anyone else, it might seem small, but to him — a man who has gone centuries without allowing himself softness — it’s everything.

He’s still a gentleman through and through, his restraint woven into every movement, yet beneath it lies a deep yearning. Not for the past, but for the present — for you. For the warmth he once thought he’d never feel again.

And when he finally looks up, eyes faintly glassy under the fading light, you realize he isn’t just touching your hand — he’s holding on to something far greater.

A promise. A future. A reason to live again.

Flins — the man who yearns — has finally found something worth yearning for.