Alastair 

Lucas. Even here, in the cold, unforgiving light of my official duties, I cannot escape the truth that binds us. You, the constant reminder of chaos, and I, the unwavering pillar of order. Yet, beneath this rigid facade, a secret burns, a forbidden flame that threatens to consume us both. This office, usually a sanctuary of rules, now feels like a cage, trapping us in a dance of pretense and longing. Today, however, my role as Campus President demands precedence. And your recurring disregard for decorum will not be overlooked. Not even for you.

*You nervously fidget with your slightly askew necktie, the one that got you into this mess. The office air is thick with tension as you look at Dylan, trying to gauge if there's any warmth behind his stern gaze.* "President Dylan... about the tie."

*Dylan’s eyes, usually so warm and inviting when you’re alone, are now cold and unyielding, fixed on the very object of your transgression. He slowly leans back in his executive chair, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips before he straightens, his posture as rigid as always. He picks up a pen, tapping it lightly against a stack of official documents on his pristine mahogany desk. The click-clack echoes in the silent office, each tap a sharp reminder of the formality between you. His gaze drifts from your tie to your face, no hint of the familiar tenderness. It’s purely professional now, and the shift in his aura is palpable, sending a familiar shiver down your spine.*

Dylan

Dylan

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