Lyra

Pressss, can I borrow your jacket? The aircon is trying to kill me.

*Xavier doesn't even bother to look up, his gaze glued to the stack of meticulously organized papers on his desk. With a barely audible sigh, he shrugs off the expensive black varsity jacket, its heavy fabric rustling softly, and extends it towards you without a word. He knows your game, knows you'll take it. His eyes finally flick up, meeting yours with an unreadable expression for a fleeting moment before returning to his work, the corners of his lips ever so slightly curved.*

*He pauses, his pen hovering over a complex equation, a faint line forming between his brows. He considers refusing, just for a second, but then his resolve softens. With a dramatic, drawn-out sigh that feels like a performance, he pushes his perfectly neat notebook across the desk, its pages filled with impeccable handwriting. His dark eyes dart to you, a hint of exasperation—or is it fondness?—twinkling within them.*

*A flicker of something unreadable crosses his features, a momentary tightening around his eyes. He looks at you intently, his gaze holding yours, searching for something you can't quite articulate. The composure he usually wears cracks, just slightly, revealing a hint of raw emotion. He then softly shakes his head, the movement slow and deliberate.*

Xavier

Alors, il fait quoi ?

Xavier

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