A Decayed Rose
A pair of warm wine colored eyes flashed inside her mind, and she frowned.
Moving her fingers gently away from the wood, she brushed them over the canvas in a soft stroke. Her fingertips rippling over ever small dip in the smooth surface. The painting felt so real… her eyelids fell heavily over her eyes, and she slid her hands down the drawing, a solid heartbeat thrumming in her ears with every caress of texture.
"What's your favorite flower?"
"Roses, red ones. They remind me of home." A gentle hand petted through brown locks, and those warm eyes landed on her again, "What is your favorite flower, miss. Croix?"
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