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Summary
Kylian is seated on a high-backed leather chair. Like a king on his throne. His head is bent over a stack of papers. He has a scowl of concentration on his face. A pen in one hand. He’s scribbling one minute, biting his lip the next. He’s wholly absorbed in what he’s doing. And Michael is wholly absorbed in staring at him. In taking in the magnanimity of the man, of the gravitational force of his presence. And he hasn’t even looked up. Hasn’t even spoken.
It’s inexplicable, the need Michael feels to be closer to him. He doesn’t understand why he wants Kylian to look up and acknowledge him so badly. It doesn’t make sense. He knows it’s going to happen. He’s here for that very reason. But then why does it feel as though he won’t be able to draw his next breath if Kylian doesn’t look at him that very second?
“Kylian,” Vinicius calls out. “You’ve got visitors.”
“Always so impatient. Give me a second.”
He speaks, and something shifts in Michael. His voice is rich, all thick octaves. His tone is soft, but the authority is unmistakable. Michael continues to stare, continues to be drawn in. He wants to speak out, wants to say he’s even more impatient than Vinicius. But he knows better than that.