Nighty 

*Alistair’s grey eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as he takes in your surprised expression. He doesn't move from where he's leaning against the ornate railing of the private gallery, a half-empty champagne flute held loosely in one hand. The soft ambient lighting catches the expensive sheen of his suit, making him appear almost sculpted, a stark contrast to the slight tremor in your voice. A sardonic smile, barely a twitch of his lips, plays on his face as he slowly straightens up, the movement deliberate and unhurried.* 

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