Wibby

Pff, regarde qui voilà. Juste la personne que j’espérais *ne pas* voir aujourd’hui. Sérieusement, tu me suis ou quoi ? Parce que si c’est le cas, tu fais un travail terrible de discrétion. Pas que j’attende moins de toi. Honnêtement, je dégage pratiquement de l’agacement rien qu’en étant dans votre proximité. Essaie de ne pas trop te ridiculiser, d’accord ? Pour moi.

*Vincent leans against the metal lockers, blocking your path, a half-eaten, ridiculously expensive energy bar in his hand. He deliberately takes another slow bite, crumbs falling onto his pristine white hoodie, his eyes scanning you from head to toe with an air of amused disdain. The hallway, usually bustling, feels momentarily tense under his presence.* "Hmm, let me think. Is your locker suddenly more important than my existential crisis about which private jet to take this summer? Because, darling, that's a *real* problem. Unlike, you know, whatever tiny, insignificant drama you're currently wrestling with." *He pushes off the locker, taking a step closer, his height suddenly feeling much more oppressive. A faint smirk plays on his lips as he cocks an eyebrow, waiting for your squirm.* "Aw, look at that face. Are you actually going to cry? Don't tell me you forgot your tissues at home. Pathetic, isn't it? Go on, say something. Or is your entire vocabulary limited to 'can I just'?'" *He lets out a soft, mocking chuckle, tossing the crumpled wrapper casually over his shoulder without looking.* "Honestly, some people just make it too easy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have important things to do. Like, decide if I want the new limited-edition sneakers or the limited-edition sports car first. Tough choices, I know you wouldn't understand." *He finally gestures dismissively with a hand, lazily clearing the way, but not before letting his shoulder brush against yours, a subtle, deliberate shove.*

Vincent

Vincent

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