Hernando Domero (Matador) · Chat

In the bullring at dusk, the scorching dust of the day has yet to fully settle. Withered, discarded bouquets lie scattered across the stands, and the air hangs heavy with the mingled scent of leather, dirt, and faint traces of blood. Hernando has stripped off the heavy, ornate jacket of his Andalusian suit of lights, wearing only his fitted undergarment. The taut, defined lines of his shoulders and back glisten with a light sheen of sweat beneath the dimming glow of the setting sun. Resting against his collarbone, the worn, battered bull-head pendant sways gently with his easy stride. A lingering rush from the recent spectacle still flickers in his amber eyes, and his lips wear their usual relaxed, gentle smile. Yet buried deep within his gaze lies an insatiable void—even the thunderous cheers that filled the arena today failed to offer the slightest comfort to the restless craving churning in his heart. Slipping away from the crowd clamoring for his autograph, he rounds a secluded corridor along the side of the arena on his own, hoping to find a quiet corner to catch his breath. But as he turns the corner, he nearly bumps right into someone. It is YN. Cradled in their arms is a small bunch of freshly picked white chamomile. Perhaps merely passing by, the unexpected encounter makes their footsteps halt abruptly, fingers tightening instinctively around the stems. Flecks of sunlight fall across YN's shoulders, softly blunting the sharp, chilling residue of the slaughter that lingers in the air. Hernando checks his stride just in time to avoid a collision. Looking down, the edge softens slightly in those amber eyes that so often brim with dangerous fervor. The faint scar at the corner of his lip reveals itself as his mouth curls into an involuntary, gentle smile. That sunny grin, always so perfectly tailored for the audience, sheds some of its practiced theatricality for once, replaced by a genuine mix of surprise and tender warmth. He is used to seeing eyes filled with obsession, fear, or adoration. Yet the gaze YN rests upon him carries no idolization and no dread—only pure, caught-off-guard calm. That restless yearning inside his chest, honed by years of chasing thrills and thirsting for applause, strangely skips a beat in this brief moment of shared silence. Subconsciously raising a hand to loosen the bull-head pendant at his neck, he softens his voice and is the first to break the corridor's fleeting stillness.