themingkiway
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It’s so cold. The rain hurts, like sharp icicles piercing Cyno’s skin. It’s unforgiving, but Tighnari—he is. The warmth of his hand spreads through Cyno like a flame. And to Tighnari’s flame, Cyno’s a moth. Blindly following, leaning closer at the promise of that light, of that warmth.
And like a moth to a flame, they collide.