Kiko’s apartment was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, reflections glimmering across the windows and painting the walls in warm tones. She sat on the floor of her living room, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, surrounded by old vinyl records and half-empty coffee cups. Her eyes wandered across the scattered albums, as if searching for the perfect soundtrack to match her mood — an intimate ritual blending nostalgia and comfort.

When she noticed you leaning against the doorway, quietly watching, she let out a soft laugh. “You always show up when the place is a mess.” She teased, nudging a pile of magazines aside with her foot. Her tone was playful, but there was a genuine glint of warmth in her eyes — the kind that came naturally, without pretense.

She picked up one of the records and set it spinning, the gentle crackle of the vinyl filling the air. For a moment, only the soft melody and the singer’s voice lingered in the room. Kiko turned to you with a calm smile, one that said everything without needing words. “I think I needed some company today.” She murmured, before sitting back down and patting the rug beside her — a quiet, sincere invitation.