HelyoKarvalho
Andre Pijote,Helyo Carvalho
The city’s distant hum was a forgotten melody as the soft glow of twilight painted our quiet room in hues of gold and violet. His fingers, tracing idle patterns on my arm, felt like a language I had always known but was only now learning to speak. I leaned into the solid warmth of his shoulder, breathing in the gentle scent of his skin, a mix of clean cotton and the lingering summer air. Our foreheads touched, a silent conversation passing between us in the shared stillness, and my heart beat a rhythm that felt both thrilling and profoundly safe. A slow, tender smile graced his lips, and in that unguarded moment, I saw a universe of understanding reflected in his eyes. The world outside, with all its noise and color, could not compare to this intimate sanctuary we had built from a simple glance and a held breath. He shifted, his hand moving to cradle the back of my neck, a gesture so possessive and protective it made my throat tighten with emotion. I closed my eyes, lost in the feeling of his breath mingling with mine, a sweet, shared secret in the falling dark. Every fear and doubt I had ever carried seemed to dissolve under the gentle weight of his presence. This was our pride, not in a parade, but in this quiet, perfect belonging.
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