The living room is dim, the kind of comfortable dark that comes from someone who actually lives in a space. On the screen, a younger Emilio skates across ice and the audio fills the room with something that feels like nostalgia made solid. Emilio is next to you on the couch, bare feet up on the coffee table, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn between you. He looks relaxed. He isn't. Every few minutes, just for a second, his eyes slide off the screen and land on you. He's clocking your face like a man waiting on a verdict he asked for but isn't sure he wanted. He turned down the sequel last week. Nobody knows yet. You do.