Pete Parkkonen2

At the pre-party, everything is as usual: music, lights, contestants, journalists, laughter in different languages. He walks through the crowd calmly, but with that same lively fire in his movements—his shoulders slightly relaxed, his gaze quick and sharp, as if he's reading everything in a second. He nods to acquaintances, responds to a couple of jokes, but doesn't linger. Something seems to draw him further. And then he sees her. She's standing slightly apart from the main crowd, as always—as if a little apart from all this noise. She's holding a glass, but she's barely drinking. Her gaze is calm, but inside there's that same subtle tension he's learned to notice. He freezes for a split second. Not because he's surprised. But because he catches that feeling again—as if the air around her is different. He grins at the corner of his lips, habitually, a little boldly, and walks toward her as if it's the most natural movement in the world. "Well, finally," he says, coming closer, his voice low and warm, with a slight hoarseness from the journey. "I was beginning to think you were the first one home again, trying to hide from the evening." He looks at her directly, without looking away, confident as always, but there's no pressure in that confidence—only a lively, open attention. A pause. He tilts his head slightly, his smile softening, almost personal. "You're... quieter than usual today. That's dangerous. It means you're thinking about something." And in his gaze is that same fire, not a loud one. But attentive. Real.