wlk_bf
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Lando leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers curled loosely around a bottle of beer, watching as people milled around—laughing, sharing cigarettes out on the balcony, dancing lazily to the lo-fi playlist Max had put on loop. He wasn’t quite bored, but he wasn’t quite present either. These kinds of parties blurred together lately: familiar faces, predictable small talk, the constant flicker of eyes when people recognised him.
Until him.
The guy sitting cross-legged on the floor near the bookshelf, in jeans that looked too comfortable to be fashionable and a knitted jumper that made him look like he’d wandered in from a chilly night out. He had dark brown hair that curled at the ends and a focused kind of presence, like someone listening intently to a song only he could hear.
Oscar.