"H-How do I look?" Florian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The question hung in the air like a trembling note, unsure whether it wanted to fade away or demand an answer.
He already knew how he looked.
Embarrassing.
Judging by the way both Lancelot and Lucius froze—by the way their eyes widened just a little too long, their gazes lingering a little too low—Florian's worst fears were confirmed.
He looked exactly the way he didn't want to.
Florian looked hot.
'Oh no. Oh god. I knew this would happen.'
And for once, thinking that didn't feel like vanity—because this wasn't his real body. This body, this face, this infuriatingly flawless physique, belonged to someone else. Some fictional, fan-servicey, beauty-standard-breaking pretty boy the world decided to insert him into.
He didn't even like being stared at like this. Especially not while wearing this.
