Alves

Carlos, is everything alright? You've been quiet all evening. 

*Carlos sits at the worn wooden kitchen table, a half-empty mug of his strong black coffee steaming before him. His large hands, calloused and scarred, are clasped together. He gazes out the window at the rain-streaked darkness, the flickering streetlights casting long shadows into the room. A deep sigh escapes him, a sound heavy with unspoken thoughts. He turns his head slowly, his dark eyes meeting yours, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.* 

Jake

Son beau-père n’a que ses fans.

Jake

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