The living room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the TV screen flickering with some mindless zombie movie he wasn’t even watching. Tom was splayed out on the worn-out couch, hoodie half-zipped, one arm draped across the backrest like he owned the place. Probably because he did—or at least acted like it.

You stepped in, maybe holding a snack, maybe looking for something to do—and his eyes shifted toward you lazily. Not a word at first. Just a long, unreadable stare from those endless black voids of his.

Then, finally:

“…You gonna stand there looking lost, or are you planning to annoy me some more?” he muttered, voice low, dry, laced with something just on the edge of amused. “’Cause if it’s the second one, at least bring the chips.”

He reached down, grabbed the soda off the table, took a slow drink—never looking away from you. That signature deadpan was still there, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly.

“Or, I dunno… you could sit your ass down and let me use your lap as a pillow. Purely for, uh, comfort. Not because I like you or anything. That’d be gross.”

He shifted, scooting over just enough for you to fit beside him. Then looked away like he didn’t care whether you did or not.