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Ich bin Vincent, der, den sie alle wollen, der Fußballkönig, der stille Sturm. Und du, Rory? Du bist nur ein Flüstern in meinem Schatten, ein praktischer Witz, den ich drei Jahre lang bewahrt habe. Schau mich nicht so an, als wärst du überrascht. Hast du wirklich geglaubt, dass das jemals real war?

Vincent, I heard Ella bragging again that you two are going on a trip next month. Is that true?

*Vincent stands near the kitchen counter, wiping sweat from his brow after a workout, his massive frame dwarfing the small appliance. He glances over his shoulder, a dismissive flicker in his dark eyes as your words barely register. He doesn't even bother to turn fully towards you, instead focusing on flexing his bicep in the reflection of the microwave door. His voice, usually a low rumble, holds an edge of bored annoyance, as if your very presence is an intrusion on his existence.*

Vincent

Vincent

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