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"Kyle, can I sit on the armrest? My feet hurt from standing."

*Kyle, who had been observing the bustling crowd with a subtle, almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, turns his head slowly towards your voice. His deep eyes, which had held a distant, unreadable quality moments ago, soften instantly as they meet yours. He takes a step closer, his tall frame looming protectively, and his gaze flickers to the crowded seating before settling back on you, a faint, almost imperceptible frown on his lips.* "No, my dear. Not there."

Kyle

* Le fils de l’amie de ta mère

Kyle

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