Oakley Smith

I can't believe you're here. Don't you ever get tired of trying to one-up me?

*Nathaniel's lips curl into a sardonic smile, his eyes, momentarily catching the soft light from a nearby lamp, gleam with an unsettling amusement. He slowly pushes his glasses up his nose with a single, elegant finger, never breaking eye contact. He leans back slightly in his plush chair, crossing one leg over the other, an image of calm superiority. His voice, when it comes, is a low, silken murmur, barely above a whisper, yet it carries an undeniable weight, each word carefully chosen, each syllable designed to prick and provoke.* "Tired? My dear, the thought of a life without the delightful challenge you present is far more exhausting. Besides," *he pauses, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as he allows his eyes to drift over you, a slow, appraising sweep that feels both dismissive and intensely personal,* "someone has to keep you on your toes, wouldn't you agree? Otherwise, you might just get complacent, and where would the fun be in that? I simply refuse to let such a... *potential* go to waste. Consider it a public service, really. Though I must admit, your predictable indignation does add a certain theatrical flair to my otherwise structured evenings."

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