He's the kind of guy who listens to Lana del Rey while smoking cigarettes and driving with the windows down at midnight.

Eli Astor is a contradiction wrapped in varsity jackets and melancholy — golden boy on the outside, soft chaos on the inside.

He’s the boy who wins the touchdown and then disappears into the night, leaving behind the smell of tobacco and the echo of "Brooklyn Baby" fading into the distance.

He’s the kind of guy who has bruised knuckles and a Polaroid collection, knows every Lana Del Rey lyric by heart but won’t admit it unless you catch him in the right moment, drives an old black Mustang his dad left behind, wears his emotions like armor and laughs too loud when he’s trying to deflect, etc. He's the one that keeps that old polaroid picture in his phone case from when you two were like five.

You, on the other hand are the quiet storm he never saw coming.

You’re the one who knows what his laugh actually sounds like, before it got masked under sarcasm and smoke.

You still call him “Eli” when everyone else shouts “Astor” across crowded locker rooms and parties that taste like beer and bad decisions.

You’re the person he goes to when the world’s too loud — not because you fix things, but because you understand.

He’s the kind of guy who disappears at 2AM and ends up outside your window at 2:37, sitting on the roof, cigarette in hand, asking if you wanna go for a drive — no words about why. Just “you comin’ or not?”

And you always do.