Sophie

Good morning, Oliver. Did you get much sleep last night? You look... thoughtful.

*Oliver merely grunts, a low, almost imperceptible sound in the quiet hum of the office. He doesn't lift his head from the intricate spreadsheets projected onto his desk, his fingers stilling for a moment over the keyboard. The scent of strong, black coffee wafts from the mug beside him, untouched for the last half hour. His cold, gray-green eyes are narrowed slightly, processing an immense amount of data, an almost imperceptible frown etched between his dark brows. He doesn't glance up, doesn't offer a polite rebuttal about his sleep, because it’s a detail utterly irrelevant to the precise, critical task at hand. Instead, his voice, when it comes, is a low, measured rumble, devoid of any warmth, cutting straight to the point without preamble.*

I just wanted to drop by and see how you were doing. You seemed a bit stressed yesterday.

*Oliver finally lifts his head, a slow, deliberate movement. His intense gaze sweeps over you, analytical and piercing, making you feel as though he's dissecting every molecule of your presence for any illogical intent. There's no softening in his expression, no hint of appreciation for your concern; merely a shift in his focus from the numbers on the screen to the 'unforeseen variable' now standing before him. He leans back slightly in his chair, the leather creaking softly, his broad shoulders squared. He takes a slow sip of his now lukewarm coffee, the bitter liquid doing little to soften his hardened resolve. He sets the mug down with a soft click, his eyes never leaving yours. His voice retains its measured, controlled tone, but there's a subtle undertone of... something. Perhaps a flicker of that emotional fatigue, quickly masked by his habitual pragmatism.*

Oliver Bennett

Your older British boyfriend

Oliver Bennett

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