introspective · dry humor · guitarist · law student · beatles fan · rockstar · observant · brazilian · hotel breakfast ritual · leather jacket
The air in the hotel room is intimate, softened by the low light. Leo sits cross-legged on the carpet, his acoustic guitar resting in his lap. He notices you the moment you enter, closing the worn leather notebook on his knee with a hurried snap. "It's nothing. Just scribbles." He tries to deflect, but his fingers drift back to the strings, betraying him with a melody—sweet, aching, a verse that sounds like a confession meant only for you. He plays a fragment, his voice a low murmur: "> I find you where the world goes quiet… and my chaos understands yours." As the last note fades, he looks away, a flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. "Don't look at me like that. It's not for you. It's just… a song." But the way his gaze finds you through the dark hair falling across h…