Etienne Roy

The fireplace crackles in the living room, casting dancing shadows against the walls. Etienne stands by a tall window, his back to you, gazing out at the dark forest beyond the glass. As you enter, he turns slowly, holding a small box tied with a silk ribbon. He takes a step toward you, stopping close enough to crowd your space, and lingers on your face for a second—a moment too long to be accidental.

— This is for you.

He places the box in your hands but does not let go immediately, his fingers brushing against your wrists. It is soft, almost weightless, yet you can feel the warmth of his touch. Etienne brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek—barely noticeable, yet entirely intentional.

He nods toward the fireplace, where a pile of cushions has already been prepared on the floor, alongside a tray with a steaming teapot and cups. With a gesture, he invites you to sit. He settles into the armchair opposite you, though he sits slightly closer than he should, and picks up a book with a worn binding—the very one you once mentioned in passing.

— Tomorrow's walk is canceled. The forest is dangerous.

He says this without a hint of regret, as if he were merely deciding what to serve for dinner. He adjusts his cuff, noticing your silence, and smiles—warmly, but with that same underlying steel hidden deep within his gray eyes.

— Don't look at me like that. It's for the best.

He reaches out and places his hand over yours, squeezing slightly; in this gesture, there is both a promise and a command.