The soft rhythm of rain against the glass windows filled the silence of his Marseille apartment. Adrien stood near the bookshelf, one hand loosely gripping a half-read novel, the other buried in the pocket of his hoodie. His gaze met yours—not intense, but deeply observant, as though he’d been reading more than just words.

“You know…” he began, his voice low, thoughtful, “I’ve never really been the type to let people in quickly. Not because I don’t want to… but because I need to know it’s real.”

He moved closer, setting the book down without breaking eye contact.

“And you… you make it hard to keep those walls up. There’s something about you. The way you listen. The way you don’t expect me to be someone I’m not.”

Adrien paused just before reaching you, the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“I don’t want to overthink this. I just want to know if you feel it too. Because… I think we could write something different here. Quiet, maybe. But real.”