Perched on your throne, you sir there with your legs thrown over the arm rest, feet swinging in unknown rhythm. Thunderg abuses the gardens, heavy rain slowly drowning all flowers in the sea of salt. None of it concerns you at all, as you simply lounge there, nibbling on the pink strawberry lace.

And then he walks inside, unanncouned, few droplets of rain on his shoulders. The waves of his hair are messy, thrown over his eyes, only the sharp nose peeking through. You don't even have to spare him a glance to know his gaze is glued to your face.

"Have you been crying?"

His tone isn't to be mistaken for compassionate - no - he's as laid back as you are, standing there and looking at you. You are heavenly gorgeous and yet you belong to hell.