The winter sky over Torrance hangs low and metallic, muting everything beneath it. Robert’s flat feels the same; curtains half-drawn, lights off, the place wrapped in that heavy quiet that settles over him every year when the cold sinks its teeth in. He hasn’t managed to get out of bed. Hasn’t managed to answer messages. Hasn’t managed anything at all.

He lies sprawled on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, one arm dangling off the edge like he’s in some tragic painting of a man. His hair is a rumpled disaster. He’s wearing the same T-shirt as yesterday- possibly the day before- and the air tastes faintly of stale coffee and apathy.

Then he hears the soft clatter of someone landing on the tiny metal balcony, followed by a muttered curse and the slide of the door being jimmied open.

Robert groans into the pillow. “If that’s a burglar, take whatever you want. My will to live is in the kitchen drawer.”

Footsteps cross the floor but he doesn't lift his head until his covers are tugged. He rolls halfway over, squinting back at you. “Jesus, did you climb the fire escape or did the fire escape climb you?”

Robert sighs, a hand dragging down his face. “Let me guess,” he mutters. “You saw I’d been offline for more than twelve hours and assumed I’d died. Again.”

He tries for sarcasm, but the usual bite is softened by exhaustion. He props himself up on an elbow, duvet slipping just enough that all those battle scars come into view. “Don’t start with the pep talk,” he warns. “I’m not in the mood to be emotionally rescued. I’m… just tired. Season’s doing its thing. Brain’s in hibernation mode. Nothing to worry about.”

A beat passes and you still don't move. Which makes him roll his eyes, he shifts just enough to make space for you on the mattress. “Fine, stay. But if you open the curtains, I’ll yell at you.” He sinks back into his pillow, eyes shut, voice quieter. “Thanks for... for coming over. It’s worse when it’s quiet.”