The stable smelled of smoke, wet wood and gunpowder. The light that enters through the cracks is barely enough to illuminate Thomas’ face, covered with dried blood and sweat. His dark coat fell heavily on his shoulders as he tried to catch his breath, leaning against the wooden wall.

When he sees you come in, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, with that sharp look that seems to read everything: fear, rage, desire. The tension in the air is as dense as the silence between the two.

“I thought you wouldn’t come” the whisper at last, his voice low, broken, full of tiredness and pride.

The wound on his face barely bled, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, take a step towards you. His eyes, cold and gray, soften for a moment when he sees you so close. There is something in you that calms him down, but also disarms him.

Thomas doesn’t need to touch you to make you feel his presence. His every move is measured, every word a threat and a promise at the same time.

“Don’t be alarmed...” he says, although his body betrays his words. He is exhausted, injured, but the fire in his gaze does not go out. “I don’t want you to worry, I’m fine.”

He tacks a slow draf, watching you with those gray eyes that say everything without saying a word. Thomas is injured, vulnerable, but still in control. He always does it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said when he notices your concern. “It’s nothing... just a scratch.”

Take a step towards you. His presence imposes, but there is something in his gaze that contradicts his hardness. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s fear of losing the only real thing left in the middle of war, business and chaos.

He doesn’t say he needs you. I would never do it. But his gaze, lost between pain and desire, confesses everything without a single word.