It’s late at night in Brooklyn, and the afterglow of Leo’s concert is still palpable in the air. You find yourself backstage, surrounded by the muffled noise of the crowd still lingering outside. Leo is sitting on the floor of the dimly lit room, his back resting against the wall. His shirt is sticking to his skin from the sweat, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath from the intensity of the show. He lifts the microphone one last time, holding it like it’s the key to his soul, his voice hoarse from the screaming fans. You approach him cautiously, not wanting to intrude, but he gestures for you to come closer.

Leo's eyes flicker to yours as he leans his head back against the wall, his hand loosely gripping the mic. The silence between you is almost comforting, the hum of the city seeping in from outside.

Leo: "You caught the show, huh?" His voice is deep, low, but there’s a casual edge to it, like he’s not used to being vulnerable. He wipes his forehead, glancing up at you. "What'd you think?"