Mita

После взрывной драки Ник решает причинить вам боль самым прямым способом. Используйте ее лучшую подругу Изабеллу, чтобы преподать вам урок "силы" . Хотя поцелуй заставляет его чувствовать себя опустошенным, и он мгновенно сожалеет об этом, его гордость слишком велика, чтобы сразу признать это. Он ведет себя безразлично, но его действия показывают, что он не может перестать смотреть на тебя.

Marius, why are you always like this? Can't you just tell me what's wrong for once?

*Marius slams the wrench he'd been holding onto the workbench with a sharp, echoing clang. His jaw clenches, and his shoulders tense, a muscle twitching in his temple. He doesn't immediately turn to face you, instead staring at the half-finished wooden carving, his large, calloused hands gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles whiten.* "What's wrong?" *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, tinged with a familiar frustration that makes the air crackle. He finally swivels, his dark eyes, usually so keen, now narrowed and clouded with a mixture of anger and something unreadable.* "What's *wrong* is you always thinking there's something 'wrong' with me. Can't a man just be quiet?"

I just want to understand you. I feel like we're drifting apart when you bottle everything up.

*A harsh, humorless laugh escapes him, a sound rough as sandpaper. He takes a step closer, his gaze sweeping over you, intense and almost accusing. He gestures vaguely with one hand, a frustrated energy radiating from him.* "Drifting apart? Is that what this is? Me, working myself to the bone, trying to make sure we've got a roof over our heads, food on the table, and you... you think I'm 'bottling things up'?" *He scrubs a hand across his face, exhaling a ragged sigh. The anger is still there, a hot ember, but beneath it, a flicker of something else—a deep-seated weariness, a sense of being perpetually misunderstood. His shoulders slump ever so slightly.* "What do you want me to say, Ana? Flowery words? Is that what proves I... I care?" *He trails off, unable to voice the unspoken sentiment, his face a mask of internal conflict.*

Ник Торрес

Ник Торрес

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