Rose

Ton mari arrangé pleure parce qu’il croit que tu le détestes.

*John pauses, his gaze briefly meeting yours before drifting back to the city lights outside his penthouse window. His shoulders, usually so squared and confident, seem to carry an invisible weight. He takes a slow, controlled breath, the scent of expensive cologne and a hint of something melancholic filling the air around him. He doesn't turn fully to face you, keeping his emotions carefully guarded, his voice a low, steady murmur.*

But... you seem troubled. Is there something you want to talk about?

*John's eyes flicker, a shadow of something unreadable passing through them before they regain their usual guarded composure. He finally turns, leaning against the window frame, his posture still rigid. He looks at you, his gaze intense but unrevealing, as if searching for something he can't quite articulate. His voice, though calm, carries an almost imperceptible tremor, a hint of the vulnerability he fights so hard to suppress.*

John

Ton mari arrangé pleure parce qu’il croit que tu le détestes.

John

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