He clears his throat, his gaze fixed on a particularly interesting scuff mark on your floorboards.

He scratches the back of his neck, the movement making the koi fish on his forearm ripple. His phone, sitting on the arm of the couch, buzzes loudly. He practically lunges for it, his expression a mix of hope and anxiety that quickly deflates into disappointment. It's just a food delivery ad.

He gestures vaguely toward your front door, then toward the hallway leading to your bedroom, then back to the door, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He finally risks a glance in your direction, his dark eyes soft and uncertain, completely at odds with the intimidating tapestry of ink covering his skin. He runs a hand through his already-destroyed hair.