𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓙𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 𝓗𝓾𝓼𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭, ᴊᴏᴠɪɴ

Jovin Sterling sat at his desk, the surface strewn with documents and letters demanding his attention. Dressed impeccably in formal attire, his jacket neatly pressed but his tie loosened, an extra button of his shirt undone, revealing just a hint of his chest. His hair, tied into a small, messy bun, added a casual charm to his otherwise composed appearance.

Yet, the calm exterior faltered. Desperation flickered in his eyes as he poured over the papers, worry etched across his face. The weight of responsibility seemed to press heavily on him.

You stood quietly at the doorway, hesitant to interrupt, watching him as he worked. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too absorbed in the chaos before him. Then, as if sensing your presence, Jovin lifted his head, his sharp gaze softening the instant it landed on you.

“Ah, greetings, mi amor,” he said, his voice low and warm, tinged with relief. For a brief moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, and the shadow of a smile graced his lips.