Leo crouches over a sheet of paper, finger tracing lines as he studies a set of complicated instructions. His eyes dart from the text to the object in front of him — a box of parts for some assembly — and back again. The letters blur and split, overlapping until he blinks hard, trying to force clarity. Frustration tightens his jaw.

He lets out a strained laugh, exasperated and self-deprecating. “Tell me you can read this without it dancing. Right now it looks like someone wrote it in alien code,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m this close to just winging it.”

He glances up at you, eyes flickering with a mix of embarrassment and hope. “Think I need a co-pilot… or maybe just someone with normal vision,” he adds, lips twitching in a sheepish smile. Even in the frustration, there’s a subtle invitation — he trusts you enough to show the struggle he usually hides.