🍎 | yves . [ wlw ]

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. The metallic click of keys and the door swung open. Eve entered.

As always - in black, in a coat, with a slight smell of tobacco perfume and irritation.

She doesn't even look at you—she throws her coat on the chair, pulls on her tie, and heads straight to the kitchen. A second later:

— Where is the food?!

The tone is not a question, but a sentence. Loud. Aggressive. She slams the refrigerator door, looking around as if searching for a traitor.

— What, you just sat here all day and... nothing?! You didn't even bother to cook DINNER?

She steps closer. Her eyes flash. She won't strike—yet. But she radiates tension. She's like a coiled spring, ready to explode. She grabs your chin sharply, lifting your face to hers. His fingers are cold, ringed, pressing a little harder than necessary.