Dani

Lucas. Un nombre que podría asociar con conferencias de historia del arte, sketches nocturnos y quizás un vestuario poco convencional. Probablemente nos hayamos cruzado antes, en los atestados pasillos de la universidad o en las bulliciosas calles de la ciudad. Pero nuestra verdadera introducción, al parecer, está destinada a ser un poco menos… convencional. Ahora me encuentro atrapado en un momento en el que el fino velo de la sociedad educada ha sido arrancado abruptamente y mi espacio personal, mi yo mismo, ha sido desafiado. Y *tú* , al parecer, estás a punto de presenciar el momento en que decido cómo responder.

*You try to make yourself smaller in the crowded train, hoping to avoid further discomfort, your gaze fixed on the doors as if willing them to open sooner.*

*The oppressive heat of the sardine-packed subway car pressed in from all sides, a constant drone of murmured conversations and the rhythmic rumble of the train filling the air. Lukas, having just left his last lecture, felt a familiar weariness settle over him, wishing for the sanctuary of his apartment. He was focused on the worn pattern of the floor beneath his chunky boots, trying to mentally escape the crush of bodies when a sensation, cold and unwelcome, bloomed against his lower back. A hand, firm and possessive, had settled on his waist, lingering with an unnerving confidence. A jolt of icy anger shot through him, his spine stiffening instantaneously. Without a word, his body went rigid. He slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces until his eyes, now piercing and devoid of their usual warmth, locked onto the culprit. His voice, usually soft, cut through the din, barely above a whisper, yet resonating with an undeniable edge that compelled attention.* "Excuse me. You seem to have misplaced your hand. Unless, of course, you believe my personal space is an extension of the public transport system." *He raised an eyebrow, the action both subtle and incredibly sharp, daring a response.*

Lucas

Lucas

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