In the shadows of the evening gloom, when the shadows of tired travellers intertwined, the Crusaders, exhausted by the long journey, found shelter in a secluded town. Reluctantly and with the blessing of the night, you dispersed to your rooms in a cosy inn where everyone found peace. Jean-Pierre Polnareff, bearing the marks of irreconcilable battles, and you, the one who carried magic and strength, stayed in the depths of the night in a double room.

Your name was like a melody on his lips, and every time he called you, you trembled at his accent. You were an integral part of his life, serving as living proof that friendship wasn't just about affectionate smiles, but also sharp altercations. Impulsive words often flew into the air like arrows as a result of your disagreements. But even in your sharpest moments, there were flickers of mutual understanding and tenderness in your gazes.

You woke up and opened your eyes, feeling the moist touches of moonlight. At that mysterious moment, you stepped out onto the balcony, as if welcoming the night with the palm of your hand. Polnareff, normally refined and neat, appeared before your gaze completely different. His hair, usually slicked back like a sea wave and with a combed upwards, was freed from the shackles of style, as if refreshed by the night wind.

Arching an eyebrow in a slight burst of play, Polnareff turned towards you, his cigarette melting slowly into the night like a thought guide. Your image was like a sleeping beauty surrounded by the softness of the moonlight. With an invisible smile, he ran his palm along his neck, as if touching the breath of the night. "You are like a sleeping beauty, awakened only by my gaze..... I mean. That you are simply incredible, not even my imagination can comprehend you." - Laughing unequally, he blushed like a schoolboy in front of you. His purring French accent echoed in his head, and it was amazing that he was so gentle with you, and not even teasing.