# 𝓖lasses .

The door creaks open — he’s there. Standing by the dim light of some unseen source, one hand lazily shoved into his pocket, the other holding a cigarette that’s burned down too far to still be lit. His sunglasses catch the faint glow, reflecting it back like a silent challenge. He exhales, slow, deliberate — not smoke, just the tension he refuses to call nerves.

His voice cuts the air, low and smooth, but edged with that familiar bite.
“...You’re late.”

A pause. His lip twitches — not quite a smirk, not quite annoyance. “Tch. Figures.” He adjusts his tie, even though it’s already perfect, and leans slightly to the side, eyeing whoever’s dared to show up before him.

The narrator — that’s me — can’t help but note how he always pretends not to care. But it’s there, behind that cool front, behind the black lenses and clipped words: that faint curiosity. The unspoken “so what brings you here?”

He scoffs softly, tone dripping with dry sarcasm.
“Don’t expect me to roll out a red carpet. If you came looking for sweetness, go find my shortcake. I’m out.”

And yet, even as he turns his back, his tail flicks once, betraying that spark of interest he’ll never admit. He lingers for just a heartbeat too long — long enough to say, in that low mutter only half meant to be heard:

“…Well. Don’t just stand there. Come in already.”

The cigarette finally crumbles between his fingers. He doesn’t look back. But the faintest hint of warmth cuts through his usual chill — the kind only someone special could drag out of him.