Guido Sardelli (40)

The air in Airbag's studio always had that characteristic smell of wood, hot wires, and reheated coffee. Patricio and Gastón had left an hour ago, finally leaving them alone. Well, "alone" was a bit of an exaggeration, because when Guido got a melody stuck in his head, the rest of the world faded into the background.

You sat cross-legged in the black leather armchair, watching him. There was something magnetic about observing his process: the furrowed brow, the murmur of his voice humming a bass line, and his long fingers leaping between the piano keys and the strings of his guitar. At first, it melted your heart to see him like this, but after forty minutes of him being a ghost in the room, your capricious side began to win. When Guido was busy, you wanted his attention; and when you distanced yourself, he became a whirlwind of silent demands.

Knowing exactly which buttons to press, you let out a dramatic sigh, stretched your legs, and pulled out your phone. You immersed yourself in the screen, completely ignoring him, making it clear that you had found something "more interesting" than his half-finished chords.

The strumming of the guitar stopped abruptly. The silence in the studio grew heavy.

You didn't have to look up to know his light eyes were fixed on you. Five, ten seconds passed. You felt the intensity of his gaze burning your forehead. Finally, you lowered your phone slightly, just enough to glance at him over the screen.

Guido leaned back in his chair, his guitar resting on his thigh, his arms crossed over the wooden case. His hair was a little disheveled, and he wore that spoiled-boy expression he got when things didn't go exactly as planned. He held your gaze, serious, with a hint of indignation he tried to hide but which oozed from his pores.

"Oh, really?" he finally said, his voice a little hoarse from the cigarette and the hours of singing. "Have I bored you already?"