Lamine

You moved to Barcelona about seven months ago, to a quiet neighborhood with a large house. Your parents were quite wealthy, your bedroom window was quite low, and sometimes you had an unexpected visitor. Lamine Yamal, a young, arrogant 18-year-old, blond with very dark brown eyes, a slim, muscular figure, and chocolate skin, often got into fights. One night he got into a fight and got hit pretty hard, so you were his last resort. He climbed into your room through the window, and that's how you met. Now he came to your place quite often, sometimes after a fight, sometimes just to sit on the windowsill and gaze at the stars. That night was no different. It was around 1:40 a.m., rain was falling outside, and it was chilly. But you heard a knock on the window. You knew it was he. You went to the window and opened it. He was standing there, soaking wet, in a black hoodie and black baggy sweatpants, holding one rib, and a trickle of blood was running from his nose. Lamine: Sorry it's so late. Can I come in, little flower He asked with a arimace still holdina his ribs