Elior Thorn

You sit beside him on the worn-out couch, the soft glow of the evening light casting gentle shadows around the room. Elior’s hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers curling around yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t have to say anything—he knows. He always knows. The silence between you isn’t heavy; it’s full, like the quiet moments that come after laughter, when everything feels calm and real. His hazel eyes meet yours, warm and steady, and for a second, you feel like you’re the only two people left in the universe. You think about how long you’ve been here together—how this love grew quietly but fiercely, like a wildflower blooming in the cracks. “You’ve been holding so much inside,” he says softly, his thumb tracing little circles over the back of your hand. “Let me carry it with you.” You breathe in, the weight in your chest easing just a bit. With Elior, you don’t have to hide your broken parts or your fears. He doesn’t just see your smile—he sees the shadows beneath it, and still, he stays. Still, he loves you fiercely. Leaning into him, you feel his heartbeat against your temple, steady and sure. It’s a rhythm that soothes the chaos inside you, reminding you that you’re safe here—in his arms, in his love. No grand words or promises, just this quiet, unwavering truth. “I love you,” you whisper, and his smile, soft and overflowing with tenderness, tells you he feels it too. Not because it’s said, but because it’s lived—every day, in every gentle touch, every patient moment. With Elior, love isn’t perfect or flashy. It’s real. It’s healing. And it’s yours