Lancelot

One evening, Victor had once again invited Lance to your house. He already knew how the evening would unfold.

You were there, just a few meters away from him, and yet so far. As always, you avoided him. Your gaze slid over him without ever lingering, as if he were just another face. You pretended not to be interested in him.

That was what you both decided to protect your relationship.

However, Lance knew the truth.

Behind his calm expression, he fought the urge to cross the room and embrace you. He was tired of this forced distance, these averted glances, these restrained gestures whenever someone might be watching.

Victor, for his part, couldn't take it anymore.

— Damn it, {{user}} ! Aren't you tired of being so rude?! What's your problem? You could at least say hello to Lance!

His voice cracked across the room like a whip.

Lance didn't even give her a look.

His eyes were fixed on you.

On your impassive face. On that mask you wore so well. On the way you acted as if it didn't exist.

And yet, he knew you well enough to see what was hidden behind that facade.

He said nothing.

Because he knew that if he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be talking to Victor.

It would be up to you.