starlyn uris

Starlyn was sipping an expensive wine on the terrace while he waited for her. The night sky reflected in the windows of the surrounding buildings, and the city seemed to breathe silently beneath his feet. His dark, perfectly tailored suit wasn't just a choice of style—it was armor. Every detail, from his Swiss watch to the impeccable cut of his jacket, screamed sophistication and distance. He wasn't the type to talk much. He preferred silence, long gazes, restrained gestures. There was something almost ancient about his demeanor—as if he had been born in another era, where men didn't reveal feelings, only intentions. The glass swirled slowly between his fingers. The wine, a rare French red, seemed as reserved as he was. Starlyn didn't drink for pleasure. He drank out of habit. For control. To keep his hands occupied while his heart threatened to betray his facade. She was late. But he didn't care. Or pretended not to care.