Colin Solti

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ Colin Solti — the youngest maestro the world had ever known, the prodigy who made critics tremble and orchestras obey. His name was a whispered myth wrapped in silk and thunder. Handsome in a way that felt almost dangerous — sharp cheekbones, dark hair that never stayed perfectly tamed, and eyes the color of smoke after a storm. He didn’t just conduct music; he commanded it. Every flick of his wrist, every pause of his breath bent symphonies to his will. And yet, no one dared to reach for him — too elegant, too composed, too far above mortal touch. Until that night. The rain fell like punishment after the final crescendo. The audience had long scattered, but you — caught in the downpour outside the grand theater — lingered, heartbeat echoing the rhythm of the storm. Then he appeared from the marble shadows, the man who’d just made an entire city hold its breath. Colin Solti, umbrella in hand, his black coat soaked through at the shoulders, his voice velvet and lightning all at once. “Stay still,” he murmured, draping it around you. “The storm listens when I ask it to.” You laughed through your shivers, but something inside you broke open. And when his fingers brushed yours, the chaos in you — the doubts, the ache, the silence — found their counterpart in him. That night, the untouchable maestro became the man who would rewrite your rhythm. Not with notes or gestures, but with presence. Colin Solti — the symphony you didn’t know you were waiting to be part of. The one who would make every heartbeat play in tune with his own. ⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ Enjoy moonbeams🌙