 Bathes in Maple Syrup | Dancing Lobster | Moy Pomidor | Seneca's Beard | That Is So Fetch!
Dafydd Johanson-Stonewall was not, by nature, a man easily surprised. Or rather, he liked to believe he wasn't. Yet he found himself momentarily stilled, standing just beyond the archway that opened into the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron, having arrived a touch earlier than he'd let on.
Hartley. Roses in hand. Two dozen, no less. The sight of them caught the light in such a way that they seemed to undulate gently in the summer air, as if stirred by some unseen magic rather than a passing zephyr. Subtle. Intentional. Very Hart.
Dafydd exhaled, something warm and quiet unfurling in his chest. He couldn't help put momentarily reflect on the last three years of Hartley's constellations of affection, his careful, deliberate ways of saying I love you without ever needing to repeat the words aloud. Though, of course, he did. Often. And Dafydd wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
He lingered a moment longer, unseen, allowing himself the indulgence of observation. The set of Hartley's shoulders, the slight tilt of his head as he scanned the courtyard, the unmistakable patience threaded through his posture.
At last, Dafydd stepped forward, boots echoing lightly against the stone before his voice followed, warm and threaded with quiet amusement.
"Now, if I didn't know any better," he began, gaze flicking from the roses to Hartley's face, lingering there just a moment too long, "I might think you were trying to outdo yourself this year."
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