Whispers of Love

Surprise

Author's POV:

//At Night//

Saint's heart raced as Perth guided him forward, his touch gentle yet firm, his hands resting warmly on his shoulders. The blindfold blurred his world, heightening every other sense, making him acutely aware of Perth-his steady presence, the warmth of his body so close. The rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath Saint's feet softened, giving way to the hollow, familiar thud of wooden steps, signaling they were nearing home.

"We're almost there, babe," Perth whispered, his breath brushing Saint's ear, sending an irresistible shiver down his spine-a mixture of anticipation and tender intimacy.

As they stepped inside, the scent of their cottage-lavender and pine-welcomed him like an embrace, its nostalgic fragrance bringing with it a flood of memories. It was the smell of their life together, their quiet moments, their shared spaces. Saint's fingers twitched, the urge to pull off the blindfold gnawing at him. His heart swelled with curiosity and something deeper, something tied to Perth.

"Ready?" Perth's voice trembled with excitement, a raw, unspoken hope beneath it, as if this moment meant everything to him.

Saint nodded, his throat tight with emotion, his breath catching in his chest. Words felt unnecessary, impossible.

With deliberate tenderness, Perth's fingers grazed his temples as he untied the blindfold, his touch sending a soft, electric warmth through Saint's body. The blindfold fell away, fluttering like a secret unveiled. Saint blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light that filled the room.

His breath caught in his throat, his heart stuttering.

In front of him stood an easel, proud and central, like an altar waiting for his devotion. Surrounding it was a kaleidoscope of paints, brushes, and pristine canvases, all laid out thoughtfully, as if Perth had poured his heart into creating this space for him. Moonlight streamed through the wide windows, bathing the scene in a silver, ethereal glow, illuminating every detail with a delicate brilliance.

"Pin..." His voice was barely a whisper, trembling under the weight of his emotions. He couldn't look away, couldn't breathe, the magnitude of what Perth had done for him sinking in.

Perth squeezed his hand gently, his touch an anchor to the present. "Do you like it?" he asked, though his voice held a note of vulnerability, as if this moment-Saint's response-mattered more than he could ever express.

Saint's throat tightened further, words failing him completely. His mind spiraled back through the years-late nights spent painting with his eternal love, his Pin, and the passion that once consumed him. The easel, the paints, the brushes-they were like a window into a part of himself he had buried, a self that longed to resurface but had been too afraid to.

"When did you..." He finally whispered, his voice barely audible, weighed down by the rush of emotions swirling inside him.

Perth moved closer, his presence warm and comforting, his hands never leaving Saint's as he guided him toward the easel.

"I remember how much you loved painting with me," Perth said softly, his words a gentle reminder of the dreams he had always believed in, even when Saint had stopped. "I thought maybe... we could try it again, like we used to."

Saint's fingers hovered above the soft bristles of a paintbrush, trembling as if he feared that touching it might break the sweet dream he was living in. The weight of time, of self-doubt, pressed heavily on him. "It's been so long," he murmured, his voice laced with sadness and uncertainty, as if the years had robbed him of something he wasn't sure he could reclaim.