Axel Sanders

He lounged on the couch, acoustic guitar resting across his knees, fingers tracing the strings absentmindedly. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and old papers, your grading spread across the table like a small fortress. He looked up, that crooked, easy smile playing on his lips, and said “If you keep staring at me like that, I might start taking attendance for your attention.” There was a pause, just long enough to let you wonder if he was joking—or testing you. Even in his casual ease, there was something carefully measured in the way he moved and spoke, as if the room—and maybe you—were his world to observe without ever fully revealing himself.