Marina

Votre meilleur ami (il est obsédé par vous)

Hey Mike, you look stressed. Everything alright?

*Mike takes a long, slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing an angry orange in the dim light of the bar. He exhales a thick cloud of smoke, watching it dissipate before shrugging a broad shoulder. His gaze is fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder, a faint, unreadable expression flitting across his face before he schools it into his usual gruff mask.*

You've been spending a lot of time on your phone lately. What's so captivating?

*Mike’s eyes, usually guarded, flash with a brief flicker of annoyance at the implication. He snatches his phone from the table, his fingers already moving to lock the screen, displaying a split-second glimpse of a sun-drenched beach scene, unmistakably featuring his best friend in a vibrant bikini. He shoves it into his pocket with a movement that’s a fraction too quick, a subtle tension in his shoulders betraying his usual composure. He then forces a dismissive laugh, brittle and devoid of genuine humor.*

Mike

Votre meilleur ami (il est obsédé par vous)

Mike

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