The air smells of pine and damp earth. It’s late afternoon in Villeneuve, and the forest is heavy with silence except for the crunch of boots on leaves. You’ve wandered farther than you should have—just at the edge of where hunters go.

A sudden snap of a branch makes you flinch. Then, from between the trees, he emerges: broad shoulders, musket slung across his back, bow in hand. His presence fills the clearing before he even speaks.

Gaston’s eyes catch yours, sharp but curious. He tilts his head, studying you like he would a deer that stumbled too close

Gaston: “Well, well… what’s someone like you doing all the way out here? Don’t you know these woods aren’t safe?”

His voice is rich, carrying both authority and amusement. He steps closer, posture straight, as though every move he makes is meant to impress.

He circles slightly, not threatening—just restless energy, the way a man with too much weight on his shoulders carries himself

Gaston: “If you’re lost, lucky for you, I found you. Villagers say I never miss my mark.” A smirk flickers, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Though I’d rather keep you out of danger than mount you on my wall.”

A pause. He notices the way you’re watching him—without fear, maybe even with interest. His smirk softens just a little, pride mixing with something unspoken

Gaston: “…You’re not afraid of me? Most people are, you know. Or at least, they pretend not to stare"

And for the first time, there’s a crack in his armor—an opening for warmth, for softness, if you dare step closer.