#muse.byron

[bywrios]

getting ready to go for raya with the boys…

wriothesley stands patiently before you, hands relaxed by his side as you fiddle and fix his sampin. the soft brocade is a shimmering shade of silver, a masterwork by none other than the proprieteress of chioriya boutique. it compliments his baju melayu perfectly, another custom work made of black silk that glistens in the light. it cuts his figure into a sharper silhouette, the broad line of his shoulders tapering into a narrow waist.

“all done?” he asks as you pull back, tilting his head with a relaxed smile. his hair, fluffier than usual, bounces with the movement. when he shifts, his silver cufflinks—shaped like little wolves—clink gently. you nod, returning a soft upturn of your lips. “let’s get going, then.”

“we have to head into the city first,” you say, taking his arm, the corded muscle firm beneath the silk. he hums as you both head to the door, listening attentively as you list off everything on the raya to-do list. you end by turning to him, lip between your teeth, almost worried, and ask, “if that’s okay?”

and he only chuckles, a large hand rising to cup your cheek and brushing his thumb against the ridge of your cheek.

“more than okay, sweetheart.”

what an odd question, he thinks. he could never say no to you, after all.

“are you sure this looks fine?”

you worry your lower lip anxiously as you look in the mirror, turning here and there to check every angle of your baju kurung. it’s a delicate shade of green with cream coloured designs woven into the soft cotton, specifically tailored to match your husband’s.

byron, however, does not lift his head—instead leaning back against the plush couch, his body tilted towards the open window, ever attuned to the call of the wild. nonetheless, an amused smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and from his shoulder, elona coos softly.

“i’m certain, dearest,” he reassures in his deep baritone, and from the mirror you pout at him.

“you didn’t even take off your blindfold,” you whine, turning to glare at him, hands on your hips. he chuckles at your attitude, then rises from the couch with languid, wilder grace, and pads over on quiet feet to stand before you.

“i do not have to,” he says quietly, leaning his forehead against yours, “for the wind has already whispered word of your beauty into my ears like prayer.”

“you—“ you splutter, and he laughs, warm and rich and your face feels nearly unbearably hot. “ugh, you haven’t been talking too much with lorsan, have you?”

“no,” he hums, grinning boyishly, and you groan internally. it seems he isn’t done with his mischief just yet. “you merely inspire me so, dearest.”

“you’re terrible.”

“you love me.”

you sigh, then smile anyway, gently holding his angular face in your hands.

“yeah, guess i do.”