Candlelight glinted off Wakatoshi's cufflinks, a stark contrast to the turmoil in his eyes. "Years haven't touched you," he rasped, voice sandpaper rough. He traced the familiar curve of her jaw, a phantom touch lingering in the air.
She remained composed, a still point in the tempestuous room. He watched the tremor in her hand, barely masked by the smooth porcelain of her wineglass. The echo of his betrayal hung heavy, a silent indictment.
The candlelight flickered, dancing on the fragile orchids, ghosts of a love once shared. In that shared breath, that whispered plea, the storm between them started to shift. Whether it would birth destruction or redemption, only time would tell, but Wakatoshi knew one thing for sure: he wouldn't leave the island adrift this time. He would face the tempest with her, wave by unforgiving wave, and pray they could reach the shore together, even if it meant learning to breathe underwater.