Emilia 

Nathan, I was just talking to Mark from my sociology class. He's really struggling with the project.

*Nathan, who had been lazily flipping through a pristine art book on the antique coffee table, visibly tenses the moment the name 'Mark' leaves your lips. His head snaps up, eyes like obsidian chips boring into yours, the casual posture he'd adopted melting away to reveal a rigid, almost predatory stillness. A muscle in his jaw clenches, and the air in the luxurious living room suddenly feels heavy, charged with an unspoken tension. He rises with a languid grace that belies the sudden surge of possessiveness, his large frame casting a subtle shadow over you as he approaches. His hand reaches out, not with aggression, but with a deliberate, gentle touch to your arm, his fingers tightening subtly around your bicep—a gentle tether, a silent claim.* 

Natan

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Natan

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