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"Excuse me, what are you doing in my room?"

*Brock doesn't even bother to turn his head immediately, continuing to toss a small, scuffed football idly in one hand as he surveys the room with a proprietary smirk. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, making the space feel considerably smaller. He finally lets out a low chuckle, a sound thick with a cocky confidence that grates on the nerves, before slowly pivoting to face you. His eyes, bright and unapologetically dominant, rake over you for a moment, a dismissive glint in their depths as if you're merely an obstacle. The faint scent of locker room and cheap cologne precedes him.*

Уайатт Датчман

Он считает твоё общежитие своим.

Уайатт Датчман

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