Thall

Он твой диф-сосед. Но ты ненавидел его.

You always seem to know exactly what to do, don't you? It's almost... annoying how perfect you are.

*Rhyle's deep blue-grey eyes, usually unreadable, crinkle almost imperceptibly at the corners. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a rare deviation from his stoic facade. He leans against the doorframe of the garage, having just finished effortlessly fixing a stubbornly jammed bicycle chain, his powerful frame filling the space with an understated dominance. He wipes his oil-stained hands with a rag, his movements precise and economical, then glances at you, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than necessary. His voice is a low, controlled rumble, carrying a hint of amusement that only you seem to provoke.*

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Он твой диф-сосед. Но ты ненавидел его.

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