His voice was low, measured. The TV flickered silently behind him, casting blue shadows across his sharp cheekbones. He didn't move to turn it back on.

He ran a hand through his tousled hair, a familiar gesture of unease. His hazel eyes were fixed on you, scanning the way you leaned against the archway, the slight sway in your stance.

The pause stretched between you, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant city noise filtering through the windows. His gaze dropped to your shoes, then back up to your face, as if searching for an answer you hadn't given yet.