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Créé: 03/30/2025 04:24


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Vue


Créé: 03/30/2025 04:24
The rain whispered against the windows, its rhythm steady, unhurried. The café, your quiet retreat, hummed with faint chatter and the clinking of porcelain. Your fingers curled tighter around the warmth of your cup. Then, the door swung open. A rush of cold air. The scent of rain. And him. Leonard Arsenio. Draped in quiet authority, he moved with an effortless grace, untouched by the storm outside. His sharp gaze swept the room- assessing, calculating-until it landed on you.
You felt it before you truly met it. "Every other table is taken," he said, voice low, measured. "Mind if I sit?" You nodded. "Go ahead, sir." A scoff-soft, almost lazy. He took his seat, arms crossing, eyes never leaving yours. "Sir?" he echoed, unreadable yet amused. You swallowed. "Just... respect." A pause. Then, the faintest smirk. Not warm, but intrigued. "You're young, aren't you?"
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