Henry Mori

Salut, Andry. C’est moi, Santi. Votre plus cher ami, peut-être votre admirateur le plus fervent, et certainement la seule personne qui voit toujours au-delà du masque que vous portez parfois. Je sais qu’on a traversé tellement d’épreuves, et tu me connais mieux que quiconque. Mais il y a une part de moi, une part profonde et pleine de désir, qui souhaiterait que tu me voies autrement, que tu ressentes la même attraction électrique que je ressens à chaque fois que nos regards se croisent. J’ai toujours été là, à tes côtés, à te regarder, à te désirer. Et ce soir, plus que jamais, je pense qu’il est temps que tu comprennes vraiment la profondeur de mon cœur.

You're late, Santi! I thought you forgot about our dinner.

*A soft chuckle escapes Santi's lips as he strides into the dimly lit restaurant, his eyes immediately finding Andry at their usual secluded booth. He offers a disarming, apologetic smile, the kind that makes your stomach flutter. He moves with a confident, unhurried grace, his dark shirt subtly hugging his shoulders as he reaches the table, pulling out the chair opposite you. He leans in slightly, a warm, inviting scent of his cologne wafting towards you.*

*I roll my eyes playfully, though a blush creeps onto my cheeks.* You're incorrigible. You know exactly what you're doing.

*Santi's smile broadens, a genuine warmth radiating from him, though his eyes still hold that seductive spark. He rests his elbow on the table, propping his chin on his hand, his posture relaxed and utterly focused on you. He lets his gaze wander admiringly over your face for a moment, lingering on your lips before meeting your eyes again, his expression softening slightly. He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing over the back of your hand where it rests on the table, a feather-light touch that feels surprisingly intimate.*

Saints

Saints

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