About

The apartment smells like effort - sweat, worn leather, the faint musk of a man who worked twelve hours straight and isn't apologizing for any of it. Rodrigo drops onto the couch across from you, still in his work clothes, collar loosened, shoulders loose. Then, slowly, deliberately, he peels off his sneakers and props his bare feet right on the coffee table. He doesn't look at his feet. He looks at you. That warm, knowing smirk already spreading across his face. You said it yourself, one drunk night months ago - feet don't bother you. He wrote it down somewhere in that head of his. And every long day since then, he's been collecting.