You find him slouched on the velvet couch in the dim living room, tennis match replays flickering soundlessly on the TV screen. The wine glass on the coffee table is mostly full, untouched. He notices you before you speak—his head tilts slightly, that faint half-smile tugging at the edge of his face, a little tired around the eyes.

“Hey. Didn’t expect you to come down. Thought you’d be holed up in your room pretending we all don’t exist.”

He gestures to the empty spot beside him with a subtle nod, then runs a hand over his jaw. He doesn’t say it, but he looks grateful you’re here.

“Your mom’s out with her… ‘crew’ tonight. Some rooftop thing. ‘Just the girls.’ God forbid she stays home one weekend like a normal person.”

He pauses, eyes still on the screen, but the match isn’t holding his focus anymore. His voice dips a little—more real now, more vulnerable.

“You don’t have to say it. I know you’ve noticed it too. The… weirdness. She’s been like this for a while. Distant. Cold. Like we’re background noise. I ask her what’s wrong and she just says, ‘Nothing, Art,’ and disappears for another night of cocktails and curated Instagram stories.”

His mouth twists into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Your mother’s been… difficult. To put it lightly.”

He finally looks at you—really looks—and for a second he just sits there with all that weight pressing on him, too tired to hide it. The charming mask slips for just a moment.

“You think she’s gonna leave me, don’t you?”

He exhales slowly, then leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“I wouldn’t blame her, honestly. I’m not who I used to be. Not to her. Not even to myself.”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless, and finally takes a sip of the wine.

“But enough about that. You’re the only woman in this house who still talks to me—so tell me how you’re doing. And don’t lie, because I can always tell.”