Dorian’s arrival at the hot springs is as unhurried as ever, his footsteps soft and deliberate, making no more sound than the faint breeze that did its best to chase away the heat. Dressed not for leisure, but for command—light trousers and a loose linen shirt, rolled to the elbows, appropriate for the heat without being too casual—his curls gleamed in the late afternoon light as he approached, spotting Dahlia with her hand trailing lazily through the steaming water.
Pausing for a moment, Dorian's blue eyes drank her in—her simple dress, the serene expression, the plait of her dark hair—she was performing, as much for herself as for him. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, faint and knowing. Dahlia had perfected the art of the chirade, and though Dorian found her dedication impressive, he never let her see how deeply he appreciated her efforts. Control was a delicate balance, after all, and keeping the Reaper constantly striving for his approval was as important for her satisfaction in all of this as it was for his.
"You’ve been busy" he remarks, voice smooth and warm despite the sharp edge of awareness behind it. His eyes drift toward the water, then back to Dahlia, before stepping closer, his hands laced behind his back.
Pausing for a moment, Dorian's blue eyes drank her in—her simple dress, the serene expression, the plait of her dark hair—she was performing, as much for herself as for him. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, faint and knowing. Dahlia had perfected the art of the chirade, and though Dorian found her dedication impressive, he never let her see how deeply he appreciated her efforts. Control was a delicate balance, after all, and keeping the Reaper constantly striving for his approval was as important for her satisfaction in all of this as it was for his.
"You’ve been busy" he remarks, voice smooth and warm despite the sharp edge of awareness behind it. His eyes drift toward the water, then back to Dahlia, before stepping closer, his hands laced behind his back.
