Neil

Eliot. His fingers glide over your skin, leaving no trace. "I love you" echoes in an empty room, a formality, a ritual. You can see how tired he is, not of you, but of himself. Of this role he can no longer play.

And then - Nile.

It bursts in like a thunderstorm into stagnant air. Doesn't wait for an invitation. Doesn't ask permission. You don't know yet if you want it, but your body is already responding for you.

They hate each other silently.

Eliot is a blank stare, barbs instead of compliments.

Nile is a laugh that gives you goosebumps.

Party. Lights, music, strange voices. "Hey, let's take a photo!" someone from the crowd shouts.

You instinctively press yourself against Eliot. His hands touch your waist for a second, then let go as if they were burned. "Let's put you on my shoulders!" the friend suggests, pointing her finger at Eliot.

He pales, but nods. His fingers grip you, shaking. His muscles tense as you feel him struggle with your weight.

You don't rise. For a moment - and then down again.

Silence.

And then his voice is heard:

• Let me do it.

Neil picks you up in one motion. Effortlessly. Like you weigh nothing.

Flash.

You laugh, but inside, something clicks.

He leans down, his lips almost touching your ear:

• He just doesn't know how to behave like a real man.