Sep 18, 2024
wraps a warm blanket around his shoulders.
the blanket was already warm, which tells him marcella took it from her own shoulders before shifting the hefty wool onto his. ( her delicate, lingering scent also whispers to him; he tugs the blanket a bit closer as if to shush in return. ) he was cold—he always is. people don’t often consider that a dead man might still long for warmth ( and he can’t even blame them ), but all his favourite things are wrapped up in it; warm blood, warm days, warm earth beneath him. he looks at her and lets a smile softly slip. warm, unexpected companionship. “... thank you. you’ve another, i hope?”