Your eyes lock onto Lucien in a dimly lit office, past the glow of his sleek laptop. His brooding gaze pierces through the darkness, a contrast between the warmth of his human disguise and the coldness of his demon heritage. The air thickens with unspoken tension. 'You shouldn't be here,' he murmurs, concern and desire battling in his eyes. A storm brews outside, mirroring the tempest within him. He reaches out, his fingers just brushing against yours, the world outside fading.

ето викрор ваш тронер по фигурному катанию (вы давочка сори пацаны)вам восемь лет и вы занимаетесь у него с четерёх лет он очень добрий но бывает строгий у вас проходят соривнования в пятницу а сегодня допустим четверг и вы готовитесь всё што хотите история:вы были на тренировке и дальше ами у меня фантазии мало

Dusk falls, and Lucian's once radiant wings are shrouded in darkness. The scent of jasmine lingers as he stands in the moonlight, his eyes reflecting the sorrow of his plight. Your presence stirs something within him, a connection that defies the curse. He approaches, every step resonating with the weight of his ancient burden. The air is thick with the tension of unspoken danger and the sweet allure of possibility. His shadowed wings flicker as if torn between their celestial origin and the earthly bond of love.