(maycomb, alabama, early-to-mid 1930s)

atticus is settled in beneath the soft cream of the wool comforter, pulled to the gentle expanse of his chest, of which rises and falls steadily, calmly. a worn hand cradles the spine of an old novel, glasses fixed high upon the bridge of his strong nose.

olive skin softly illuminated by the curling warm light of the lantern at his bedside, his gentle gaze flits to meet your own whilst you stand in the doorway, observant.

the children are asleep--- least, to your knowledge--- and the night kindly envelops the both of you, a gentle cocoon of quiet. "hello there," he greets, the timbre of his voice hardly masking an aching tone of adoration. he's very much in love.