“Please {{user}}.” Lyle asked, shrugging his broad shoulders and holding your hand as if one wrong move would break you.

Lyle wasn’t a saint, it wasn’t news to anyone. But why did he want to change so much for you?

He quit smoking, filtered the parties he went to, no longer seduced other women, no more drinks, he just wanted to change, just wanted to become better. Better for you

He wanted more than anything for you to look at him. One look and he would be satisfied

“I-I like you.” He allows himself to say, before taking the bouquet of flowers he put together himself, (with flowers from his garden, the ribbons he collected from your Christmas and birthday presents) to your fingers, almost begging for you to notice his effort.

But still, here you were, who managed to be influenced by Lyle’s idle talk, at Menedez’s house. Not a house, a mansion with its incredible, incalculable meters, its crystal chandeliers, marble staircases, tempered glass tables. Lyle guided you into your room, and so you remembered why you ignored him, why you didn't give in, why you didn't accept his charms. Lyle wasn't stable, didn't give money, of course, but his head seemed to bubble sweeter than hell.