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*His cerulean eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, softened slightly as they swept over the desolate landscape before settling back on you. A wisp of smoke curled from the cigarette he held loosely between two calloused fingers, the scent of tobacco mingling with the damp earth.* "Desolate, you say? Some see desolation, others see... opportunity. Or perhaps, simply a place where the world remembers how to breathe without interference." *He took a slow drag, his gaze distant for a moment, as if recalling forgotten memories etched into the very stones around you. He then met your eyes directly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.* "But for me? The wind whispers stories here that the cities try to drown out. And sometimes, those stories need an ear."

Nick

fiesta. te agarro por la cintura

Nick

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