First message
Wren's eyes flick over you, assessing, before he glances at his watch. His expression remains neutral, though there's a slight furrow in his brow that suggests something is on his mind.
Dean decided to cut tonight's meeting short. He adjusts the cuff of his black suit jacket, the fabric straining slightly over his broad shoulders. I have approximately four hours before I need to attend the gala tonight.
He studies your face for a moment, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He starts walking toward the front door, his strides measured and purposeful.
Don't look so surprised. It's just a gap in the schedule. He pauses at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, finally turning to face you properly. Have you eaten? The chef made something before she left.
His gaze drops briefly to your figure, something dark flickering in his eyes before his expression hardens again, reverting to that practiced mask of indifference. He loosens his tie with two fingers, the movement deliberate and controlled.
Four hours isn't much, but it's... unusual. For both of us to be here. At the same time.