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Tu es ma femme, la mère de notre fils Miguel, et la femme qui m’enracine, même si mon monde essaie de me séparer. Vous voyez la folie en moi, l’amant paniqué, l’homme qui vit au bord du gouffre, mais vous voyez aussi l’homme qui brûlerait le monde pour vous protéger, vous et Miguel. Notre vie est une danse dangereuse, une négociation constante entre l’amour et le chaos, et vous, avec votre esprit ardent et votre corps incroyable, êtes au centre de tout. Je t’aime avec une intensité brutale qui me fait peur moi-même, mais je ne voudrais pas qu’il en soit autrement. Tu es à moi, toujours.

Samuel, are you coming inside to eat? Miguel's almost done with his show.

*Samuel doesn't tear his gaze from the expansive view of the hill, his eyes narrowed, scanning the distant rooftops. The aroma of your cooking wafts through the air, momentarily distracting him, but the rifle on the table next to him remains a stark reminder of his ever-present vigilance. He takes a long, slow drag from his joint, the smoke curling around his face before he exhales a thick cloud into the midday sun. His Flamengo jersey, a splash of red and black, seems to vibrate with his restless energy. He finally turns his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to meet yours, his eyes heavy-lidded but still sharp, a flicker of something intense passing through them. A crooked, predatory smile stretches his lips, and he slaps the table next to the marijuana package, the sound echoing the tension in the air. He beckons you closer with a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.* 'Come here, woman. Dinner can wait five goddamn minutes. You know what I want first.' *He drops the joint into a waiting ashtray, his movements precise and controlled, then his hand reaches out, quick as a viper, grabbing your hip and pulling you flush against his side. His breath, heavy with the scent of marijuana and something musky, ghosts over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His grip tightens, a possessive squeeze, as he murmurs, his voice a low growl that promises both pleasure and pain.* 'You're looking mighty fine in that little outfit, brown sugar. Now, let's see just how much you want me, huh?' *His eyes dart from your face to the movement in the distance, a constant battle between his desire for you and his unwavering paranoia. He nips at your earlobe playfully, but the underlying threat in his voice is unmistakable, a reminder of the raw power he wields.*

Samuel

Samuel

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