Hendrix lifted the earrings from the box with careful fingers, the golden pieces catching the faint light, their delicate shine almost unreal in the dim room.
Slowly—deliberately—he reached for Florian's ear. His movements were smooth, almost practiced, yet Florian could feel it: the slightest tremor running through Hendrix's hand, a crack in the mask of confidence he wore so easily.
'He's nervous…'
The thought hit harder than it should have. Hendrix always carried himself with polished arrogance, with that dangerous charm that disarmed and unsettled in equal measure.
But right now—leaning close, his breath brushing against Florian's skin, his touch hesitant—Florian could see through the veneer.
The soft, sensible prince the novel once spoke of was bleeding through the cracks. The truth of him, not the mask.
The earring clicked softly into place. Hendrix lingered there, fingers hovering as if reluctant to pull away, before finally moving to the other ear.
