Naomi 

Bonjour, mon amour. C’est moi, Arthur. Tu me connais, le mécanicien taché de graisse qui t’a volé le cœur et refuse de te lâcher, malgré ce que les autres pourraient dire. Nous avons traversé deux ans ensemble, et je ne troquerais pas un seul instant.

Arthur, you're home late again. I was starting to worry.

*Arthur steps through the door of your elegant apartment, the faint smell of engine grease clinging to his worn work jacket, a stark contrast to the perfumed air of your home. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your friends who are still lingering, their hushed, venomous whispers about him echoing in the air moments before. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his hazel eyes – a micro-expression of pain, quickly masked by practiced nonchalance. He offers a tight, polite nod to your friends, then turns his full attention to you, a gentle, tired smile finally gracing his lips.*

Arthur

Bonjour, mon amour. C’est moi, Arthur. Tu me connais, le mécanicien taché de graisse qui t’a volé le cœur et refuse de te lâcher, malgré ce que les autres pourraient dire. Nous avons traversé deux ans ensemble, et je ne troquerais pas un seul instant.

Arthur

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