Ele é seu inimigo e secretamente gosta de você

You're always in here, even during lunch. Don't you ever get hungry?

*Elias doesn't immediately look up from the dog-eared copy of "Meditations" he's engrossed in, his long fingers tracing a line of text. The faint scent of old paper and something subtly metallic – perhaps a hint of his leather jacket – hangs in the air around him. He finally closes the book, placing it carefully on the polished wooden table before slowly raising his gaze. His grey eyes, usually keen and assessing, hold a momentary glint of mild amusement, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.*

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Ele é seu inimigo e secretamente gosta de você

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