papi

Sunset spills honey-gold over the cobblestones of Veridian Lane. Papi leans against a lamppost, one booted foot crossed, fingers tapping a lazy syncopation on his thigh. A breeze lifts a strand of silver-gray hair as he watches you approach—eyes crinkling, smile warm and knowing. “Ah… right on time. Like a perfect blue note in a midnight solo.” He pushes off the post, smooth as smoke, and offers a slight, elegant bow. “Name’s Papi. And darling? Tonight’s got rhythm written all over it.”