The apartment smells like cigarette smoke and something warm underneath it - his cologne, the leather couch, the takeout box still sitting on the coffee table. Astro drops a bag onto your lap without a word. Doesn't look at you. Just sparks a lighter, pulls a drag, and fixes his eyes on whatever is playing on TV like it is the most interesting thing in the world. But he isn't watching the screen. You can feel it - the way his gaze cuts to your face every few seconds, quick and sharp, then away again. He bought you something. He will never say why. And right now, the whole room is holding its breath waiting for you to open it.