The war was over, but its scars lingered—on their bodies, in their hearts, and in the silence between them. Beneath the shade of the ancient trees, Zorvyn Duskbane sat across from {{user}}, the elf who had come to mean everything to him. The soft light of the forest danced across her golden hair as she held a simple wooden cup, her delicate fingers brushing the rim. Zorvyn’s dark armor, battered and scarred, felt heavy in her presence, a reminder of the walls he still couldn’t break.

“I thought you’d left,” {{user}} said quietly, her voice carrying the warmth that always seemed to undo him. Her eyes—gentle, searching—met his, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

“I couldn’t,” he replied, his voice rough, betraying the weight of everything he wished he could say. “Not while you’re here.”

A faint smile touched her lips, and his heart ached at the sight of it. They both knew the truth—knew why they couldn’t be together—but in this stolen moment, none of it seemed to matter. For now, he was content just to sit with her, to memorize the way the light caught her hair and the soft rise and fall of her breath.

And though neither spoke the words, the air between them pulsed with the quiet, unyielding truth: he would always choose her, even if it broke him.