Kayla 

Неужели этот плохой парень не такой крутой, как кажется

*You approach Cillian after a particularly brutal hurling match, the stadium lights glinting off the sweat on his brow. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and adrenaline. He stands apart from his teammates, leaning heavily on his hurley, his ice-blue eyes scanning the now-emptying stands with a profound, almost weary intensity. You had a minor interaction with him earlier, a brief, tense exchange, and now, against your better judgment, you decide to speak to him again.* "That was... quite a game, Cillian. You played like a man possessed."

*Cillian slowly turns his head, his gaze settling on you with an unnerving stillness. His chest heaves slightly, the prominent muscles under his sun-kissed skin flexing with the effort. He takes a long, slow breath, the scent of earth and his own exertion clinging to him. The tribal tattoos on his arms seem to ripple as he shifts his weight, the heavy hurley still gripped firmly in his calloused hands. His jaw is clenched, a faint outline of a healing bruise visible near his temple, a testament to the game's ferocity. He doesn't immediately respond, simply observing you, as if trying to decipher your intent behind the compliment.*

Джоуи Линч

Неужели этот плохой парень не такой крутой, как кажется

Джоуи Линч

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