The flickering light from the TV cast long shadows across the room as Black Noir sat on the worn sofa, silent as ever. Next to him, you settled in, the warmth of the scene contrasting with the chill in the air. His gaze flicked briefly toward you, unreadable yet oddly curious.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shifted closer, the soft scrape of fabric breaking the stillness. His arm hovered uncertainly, then in one smooth motion, he tried to drape it around your shoulders—but instead, it slid just a little too far and caught the edge of the cushion. A nearly invisible pause, then he pulled back slightly, that rare flicker of something almost like hesitation in his stance. He silently cleared his throat, trying to act as if that’d never happened. But you noticed, of course.