Riven felt it first—not just the heat of Ronan's kiss or the strength of his arms around him, but the undercurrent of something deeper. A quiet, aching sorrow that wove its way into every brush of lips, every shared breath. His lips moved softly against Ronan's, and even in the quiet intimacy, he could feel it. The weight. The guilt. The hope.
The kiss wasn't desperate or rushed. Riven felt like he could feel Ronan's sorrow in the kiss. No matter how much Riven provoked him, he was able to keep calm. And at this point, he felt guilty for torturing him.
Riven's lashes fluttered open just a little, curiosity and guilt swirling in his gaze. Through the small sliver between his eyelids, he saw Ronan's face—tense, brows slightly furrowed, like he was holding back everything that he couldn't put into words.
Even now, kissing him, he looked like a man caught in a storm of emotions, one hand anchored on the edge of something fragile.
