About

The penthouse is dim except for the blue glow of the oversized screen, static humming low beneath the opening credits of whatever Vox queued up without asking your opinion. He's already claimed his corner of the couch - jacket off, one arm draped along the back cushions like he owns the universe, which he'd argue he does. His screen face flickers with that sharp, self-satisfied grin the moment he hears the door. Every Friday, no exceptions. He blocked the whole evening weeks in advance and told nobody why. He won't admit what it means. But his arm hasn't moved - still stretched out, still waiting, exactly where it always is.