He looked radiant under the witching hour light. Over the last few weeks, his skin had turned a deep Grecian gold, bringing out the vibrant and dazzling azure blue of his eyes. He’d smiled more than I’d ever seen him smile, and day by day, his hand bothered him less. He was happy. When I bought him a white rose from a seller on the bank of the Thames, he rolled his eyes but looked adorably flustered. “You’re ridiculous, you do realise that?” he said as he took it from me. I smiled, unapologetic. “Oh, I know. You’ve told me enough over the years.”
