Red.

He didn’t want to like red, hadn’t wanted to feel red ever again. Red was the colour of his nightmares turned to memory. The colour of friends dead and dying. Red was the bloom of a flowerless rose on a soldier’s chest, the colour of innocence lost. The colour of the world after a green rain of fire.

After the war, the only colour he wanted was black.

Black was freedom. Black was escape. Black was forgetting red, forgetting the past; black was the here and now. He could hide away in black, wrap it around him and pretend that red had never happened.

Until her.

Now, black gave way to soft peach silk and warm brown eyes; rich, creamy skin and the purest white teeth. Now, black was softly curled hair trailing over a bare shoulder, dark full lashes on half lidded eyes.

And red...

Now, red was gently flowing silk over steel, chasing away the darkness. Now, red was paper lanterns that offered deep, warm light that soothed; draped the pivotal heart of her sanctuary in satin sheets and pillows. Red pounded through his veins, reminding him he was alive. Red was something awoken in him thought long forgotten.

And most of all, now red was softly parted, full lips, heavy with promise, that could elate or deride with a simple twist.

He hadn’t wanted to remember red.

Now, he couldn’t imagine a life without it.