100 Ritual (1/4)

Wren's hands lingered on Rowan's waist as he eased him to his feet in the middle of their bedroom, but he refused to make eye contact. The evening sun washed the room in a yellow-orange haze, illuminating Wren from behind so a slight halo peeked around the black edges of his silhouette. The scent of lilacs and roses wafted in from the garden as the curtains lifted on a quiet breeze.

That used to be Rowan's favorite scent, the one that reminded him he was home, but he had a new favorite, now. Something spicy and warm that somehow made his pulse race and quieted his heart at the same time.

He didn't need the scent of lilacs or roses to feel at home. All he needed was the man in front of him.

The one who was clearly frustrated despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise.

Rowan felt unbearably cold without Wren's heat against his skin. He solved the problem by wrapping his arms about Wren's waist and bringing their lower halves flush against each other.