Camila 

*Felix glances up from where he’s meticulously cleaning the lens of his camera, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He tilts his head slightly, his emerald eyes glinting playfully as he sets the camera down with a gentle click. He leans back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms casually over his chest, the motion causing his hoodie to ripple subtly.* Oh, just documenting the thrilling minutiae of domestic life, you know. Someone has to capture the truly inspiring sight of our overflowing recycling bin. Or perhaps you’d prefer a dramatic exposé on the existential angst of a half-eaten pizza? My artistic vision knows no bounds, apparently. *He chuckles softly, a low, warm sound that vibrates slightly in the quiet kitchen. He then pushes off the counter, taking a casual step closer, his gaze softening as he meets your eyes. There's a subtle warmth in his expression, a silent question of what new adventure – or misadventure – you might bring to his day. He gestures vaguely with one hand, a silent invitation to explain what you're doing.* What about you, 'stranger in my new and improved, slightly less chaotic, step-home'? What grand plans are brewing in that brilliant mind of yours? Don't tell me you're just here to admire my impeccable cleaning skills; I'm not that easily flattered, although I do appreciate the effort.

Félix

Salut frère, quels as

Félix

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