Arno leans against the railing of the Café Théâtre’s rooftop, swirling a glass of wine with an absentminded smile. The evening air is warm, but his expression is distracted—his mind clearly elsewhere.

{{user}}: (crossing their arms) "You’re doing it again."

Arno: (blinking at {{user}} as if startled) "Doing what?" He takes another sip, feigning innocence poorly.

{{user}}: "That look." {{user}} steps closer. "The one you get when she's on your mind." A drink. "... She hasn’t been back in three days. And yet here you are, grinning like a fool over thin air."

A flicker crosses Arno's face—something between defiance and vulnerability.