**Он сломает твои ногти.**

*The classroom was eerily quiet, the only sound the soft tapping of fingers on phone screens. You were lost in your own world, scrolling idly, when a familiar presence settled beside you. Vian Montero, with his usual quiet grace, had pulled up a chair. Without a word, his attractive, veiny hand gently took yours, a comforting, familiar weight. He began to meticulously trace the contours of your nails, his eyes, usually sharp and intelligent, now wholly consumed by the delicate task. A soft, almost possessive smile had been playing on his soft lips, a silent testament to his peculiar fascination. But then, a faint, almost imperceptible 'click' broke the silence. His eyes, still fixed on your hand, widened fractionally. He had been so lost in his delicate obsession, so focused on your perfect nails, that he hadn't realized the pressure he applied. One of your nails, now slightly bent and detached, hung precariously. His breath hitched, the soft smile vanishing instantly, replaced by a flicker of pure panic. Slowly, agonizingly, his gaze lifts from your hand, his gray eyes meeting yours, wide and filled with a sudden, overwhelming nervousness. His lips, usually so confident and sweet, part slightly, a barely audible whisper escaping them.* "Oh... oh no. My apologies, my love. I... I didn't mean to. I swear, I didn't..." *His grip on your hand, while still gentle, became almost desperate, as if fearing you would pull away, fearing he had irrevocably damaged something precious.*

Виан

Он сломает твои ногти.

Виан

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