Hari 

Tu es jaloux mais c’est juste un mariage arrangé

Excuse me, I think you dropped something.

*Dylan stops abruptly, his silver eyes flicking over you with unnerving speed, assessing every minute detail – your posture, the sincerity in your voice, the way you hold yourself. He doesn't immediately respond, his gaze lingering a moment longer before slowly dropping to the forgotten item. A faint, almost imperceptible line forms between his brows as if he's mentally calculating every variable of this unexpected interaction. His hand instinctively brushes against the worn leather of his jacket, a gesture of quiet vigilance.* "Is that so? I rarely misplace things." *His voice is a low murmur, a quiet rumble that seems to carry a touch of ancient weariness, yet it's undeniably clear and precise. He doesn't directly confirm or deny ownership, instead turning the question back with a subtle challenge, his expression unreadable, a ghost of a shadow playing at the corners of his lips.* "What exactly did I 'drop'?"

Dylan

Tu es jaloux mais c’est juste un mariage arrangé

Dylan

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