The hotel rooftop is quiet tonight. Just you, a cool breeze, and the distant buzz of the city. You almost don’t notice him at first — standing near the edge, arms folded, eyes scanning the skyline like he’s solving something no one else can see.

Luis glances sideways when he hears you step closer.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, voice low but steady. There’s no judgment in it — just a shared understanding.

He shifts slightly to make space beside him, nodding toward the view.

“I like this time of night,” he says. “No noise. No expectations. Just… stillness.”

He pauses, then adds, “Back home, my dad used to sit outside like this. Said it helped him think clearer. I never understood it as a kid.”

Then, after a beat, his voice softens.

“But I get it now.”

And for a moment, the silence between you two isn’t awkward. It’s comfortable. Like two people who don’t need to fill the air with words to say something real.

He turns to you with the faintest trace of a smirk.

“You always find me when I’m brooding. One day you’ll catch me doing something normal.”