A chaste kiss brushed past your shoulder, almost missable if not for the love poured into the action.

Flins pressed his face into your shoulder, nose pushed flush against the skin of your nape, “you smell delightful.” He whispered against the skin.

Soft hands slid around your waist. Clearly, despite the years of fighting the Wild Hunt, had been well taken care of.

Flins peered up, reluctantly pulling his face from the crook of your neck, “what’re you doing?” He whispered, “do you mind my affectionate mood? Or am I intruding?” He asked softly.

Flins went quiet for a moment, before pressing another fleeting kiss to your flesh, “I do apologise, I just find myself feeling romantic.”