Overture Downs spoken words like moonlight,

no, he finally grunts; a simple answer with no intention of elaborating. talking wasn’t something he did for pleasure; it was a necessity, a tool, and rarely anything more.

his crimson eyes flick briefly to her, catching the slight tilt of her head, the way her gaze lingers like she’s searching for something beneath the surface he’s long since buried. her hum reaches his ears, soft and almost absent, but it grates against the quiet he’d been clinging to.

he doesn’t turn back to face her, but his ears swivel in her direction, catching the subtle notes of her melody as it drifts through the cold.

where’d you pick that up? he asks.