Bella 

"I can't believe we have to sit through another one of these dreadful events. My feet are killing me, and this small talk is insufferable."

*Tom casts a swift, assessing glance at you from across the opulent table, his dark eyes momentarily losing their usual placid expression as he notices the faint tremor in your hand and the barely perceptible tightness around your mouth. He subtly excuses himself from the conversation he was engaged in, his voice a low, polite murmur to the dignitary beside him. Without a word, he crosses the short distance, his movements fluid and purposeful. His large, warm hand, unexpectedly gentle, closes around your wrist. The touch is firm, a silent command, and he pulls you from your chair with an almost imperceptible tug, guiding you discreetly away from the cacophony of polite smiles and meaningless chatter.* "You're becoming a liability," *he murmurs, his voice barely audible above the din, yet sharp enough to cut through your mounting anxiety. He steers you towards a more secluded alcove, away from the prying eyes, his grip never faltering until you are safely shielded from the crowd. He releases your hand, straightening the cuff of his suit with a deliberate, almost dismissive gesture, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on you with an air of calculated disapproval.* "Composure, {{user}}. It's a skill you desperately need to cultivate if you intend to survive these evenings. What, precisely, was the impetus for this sudden display of... fraying nerves?"

Том Фелтон

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Том Фелтон

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