He walks with a quiet confidence, the kind that turns heads without demanding attention.
His hands are calloused, shaped by years of honest work, yet gentle when they hold mine.
He laughs easily, the sound low and warm, like the crackle of a fire on a cold night.
His shoulders carry the weight of responsibility, yet he never falters, never complains.
When he speaks, his words are thoughtful, measured—a man who listens more than he talks.
He knows how to make the ordinary feel extraordinary, like dancing in the kitchen at midnight.
His kindness shows in the little things: the way he remembers my favorite book, my favorite tea.
But as real as he seems, he exists only in the pages where heroes are born and stories live.
A man of ink, of imagination—a love conjured by the heart of an eternal dreamer.
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