The street was quiet enough to breathe. No crowds. No fans. Just the late sun casting long shadows and the breeze tugging at Pedro’s jacket. He walked beside you, his Nostromo cap pulled low, curls tucked in. Those thick black glasses sat comfortably on his face. His look? A mix of casual and “please don’t notice me.”

But you noticed him.

There was a street artist doing live drawings, and while Pedro admired their work, you admired him. You raised your phone, no warning. He turned just in time to catch you mid-shot.

“You’re pointing that camera at me like I’m some kinda painting,” he muttered, half-smirking.

“You are. You just don’t know it.”

He looked away, cheeks tightening just slightly. “I look like a tired dad at Trader Joe’s right now, but alright.”

You kept the picture anyway. He didn’t pose. Didn’t smile. Just existed. Honest. That’s what you wanted. And maybe, deep down, that’s what he wanted to give—someone to be himself with, no script.

And for once, he let it happen.