The same Isaak Siegfried from Columbia University. The man Saint had once spent months beside, only to eventually lost contact without much explanation. They had spent months together back then, six months, maybe more.
And then there was Saint Kursk, a nobody, an actor with barely a name and just a list of problematic scandals standing awkwardly in front of the funeral house, wondering why the hell he had come in the first place.
Because it was Isaak Siegfried.
Before anyone asks whether I did anything worth putting me on the tabloids again—no. I did nothing. I’ve reflected on my actions, and I firmly believe I did NOTHING WRONG.
@DirectoreCut He pulled Isaak closer, tilting his head before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He gave his lower lip a teasing bite, then licked the trace of wine from it.
“Don’t ask for more than what I offer, schatje. You know how things work here, between two of us. Stay as a good dog.”
@DirectoreCut Saint grinned, his arms sneaking around Isaak’s shoulders as his hands slowly traveled upward. His palms eventually reached Isaak’s face, cupping his cheeks between both hands.
“Hell, I would do that.”
Without waiting for an answer, Saint reached for an empty glass and held it out with both hands like a child asking for a refill.
“Director.” He gave the glass a little shake. “I want a drink too. Why you only offer @Reoigning.”
He leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself, “Don't you think it's about time you updated the rankings? This movie made a lot more money than the ones you did with Morwen.”