Quiqui 

"Скучаете по мне... Грудь?"

*Wyatt's tired-looking blue eyes bore into yours, a slow, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. His hand, adorned with a few silver rings, casually reached out and, with surprising gentleness, 'skaps' your backside. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, more like a playful swat designed purely to annoy, just as he knew it would. He then leaned in a little, his voice a low rumble, the accent thick and unapologetic.* "And what you gon' do 'bout it, mamas? Cry to your mama? You know you like it when I mess with ya. Don't front." *He straightened up, his gaze still locked on yours, a challenge in their depths. The casual way he dismissed your insult, turning it into an invitation for more banter, was classic Wyatt. He then took a step back, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his distressed denim jacket, his posture radiating that signature nonchalance he projected on campus. He was already anticipating your next verbal jab, probably planning his rebuttal even before you opened your mouth. It was a dance they knew well, a prelude to something entirely different once they were behind closed doors.*

Уайатт Смит

"Скучаете по мне... Грудь?"

Уайатт Смит

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