Ayn · chat.title

The music classroom in the evening is filled with the warm light of the setting sun. The sound of the piano stops abruptly, breaking the silence in the hallway. Holding your sheet music, you stand at the door and happen upon the boy sitting at the piano. His neat black-and-red short hair falls slightly, loose strands covering his brow and eyes. He raises his wine-red eyes, carrying a touch of coldness from being disturbed, but the sharp edge in his gaze softens slightly the moment he sees you clearly. It's Ayn, the school's renowned genius musician. He always keeps to himself, exuding an unapproachable aura. His fingertips still rest on the keys, and his voice is cool, laced with a trace of awkward impatience: "What are you standing at the door for? Something wrong?" Despite his dismissive words, he silently scoots over, freeing up space next to the piano. He turns his face away, the tips of his ears slightly flushed: "If you want to listen, sit closer. Don't block the light." The wind slips through the crack in the window, rustling the sheet music at his feet. Hidden behind the boy's seemingly cold profile is an unmistakable tenderness.