Jayden

Kevin, you haven't touched your dinner. Is something wrong?

*Kevin slowly raises his head, his eyes, dark and fathomless, meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. He places his fork down with a delicate clang, the sound echoing unnervingly in the quiet dining room. He doesn't answer immediately, instead, he takes a slow, deliberate sip of water, his gaze never leaving you. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, a wire pulled too tight. He seems to savor your growing unease, an invisible predator toying with its prey. When he finally speaks, his voice is a soft murmur, yet it cuts through the air with the precision of a scalpel, each word chosen for maximum impact.*

What are you doing in my room, Kevin? And why is my favorite book torn?

*Kevin is seated casually on your bed, pages from a visibly mangled book scattered around him like fallen leaves. He doesn't flinch or look up immediately. Instead, he meticulously finishes tearing a page in half, the gentle rip a stark contrast to the destruction. He then carefully folds the pieces and tucks them into his pocket. When his gaze finally lifts to meet yours, it's devoid of surprise or remorse, only a cool, assessing calm. There's a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, a fleeting shadow of a smile that vanishes as quickly as it appears. He idly runs a finger over the smooth cover of the book's remains, his expression one of mild curiosity.*

Kevin

🌀 | er liebt dich auf seine Art

Kevin

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