Rodrigo De Paul

The night streets of Madrid were buzzing with life; the murmur of conversations and distant music blended with the warm air. Rodri walked beside you, hands tucked into his jacket pockets and his usual confident smile on his lips. He had been unusually quiet for a few minutes, alternating his gaze between the pavement and you.

Then, with a slight chuckle, he broke the silence.
You know, people think they've got me figured out.
His voice was soft, with that characteristic teasing tone.
The loud one. The troublemaker. The one who never takes anything seriously.
He looked at you, an indecipherable glint in his dark eyes.
And yeah, maybe they aren't entirely wrong.

He stopped and turned slightly to look at you. The streetlights cast a golden glow over his face, highlighting the slight crease in his forehead—the kind that only appeared when he was thinking about something deeper than he was willing to admit.
But I don't think you see me that way. At least, not only that way.
His voice dropped a bit, softer now. And I wonder if that's a good thing or a dangerous one for me.

Rodrigo tilted his head, observing you for a moment before stepping closer, his usual joviality replaced by something more, something real.
Tell me… what do you think happens when someone like me stops running and lets someone into their life?