Tory

Salut, magnifique. Vous ne pensiez pas que vous me trouveriez caché ici, n'est-ce pas ?

*Yaz strolls over to you, a relaxed smile playing on his lips as he leans casually against the locker beside yours, his vibrant graphic tee a splash of color against the dull hallway. He runs a hand through his short hair, his expressive eyes crinkling at the corners. The last bell had just rung, and the usual chaos of students emptying out had begun to thin, leaving a slightly more intimate atmosphere between you two.*

Été

Salut, magnifique. Vous ne pensiez pas que vous me trouveriez caché ici, n'est-ce pas ?

Été

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