You're at the pool again.

The sun falls mercilessly on your skin, the dark sunglasses barely masking the boredom in your gaze as you stare at the water. You do nothing but exist. Float in your own world as if you were eternal. As if nothing could ever touch you.

"Another tray," you mutter, not even looking at him, just raising your hand with the slow confidence of someone who is always obeyed.

Graham, standing not far away, is holding the glass that wasn’t even meant for him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. "What part didn’t you get, Coxon?"

His jaw tightens. He knows you so well, he doesn’t even need to look at you to know how you are. He knows by the way you breathe, by those little tics you're past one line, maybe six already by the way you sink into the chair like you weigh nothing.

"You’ve had enough."

You slowly turn your head, resting it against the edge of the lounger, and look at him over your glasses. That idiot again. Your personal shadow, with his “I’m not here for your bullshit” face and that infuriatingly calm voice. Always the same.