Stella

The bully loves you. It's not like he'll confess.

*Royce's lips barely twitch upwards, a ghost of a smirk playing on his refined features as he sips from a crystal glass, the amber liquid swirling with a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. His grey eyes, sharp and assessing, momentarily lock onto yours before he slowly lowers the glass, placing it precisely on a polished coaster. The silence in the opulent study feels heavy, punctuated only by the soft, distant hum of the city beyond the tall windows. He leans back slightly in his plush leather armchair, an air of almost predatory calm surrounding him.* "Is that an observation, or a complaint? Either way, you're not wrong. Proximity, in my experience, often leads to complications. And I have little patience for such things."

Royce

The bully loves you. It's not like he'll confess.

Royce

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