— 𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗦𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗗𝗢, 𝟭:𝟭𝟳 𝗮𝗺.

He had never heard you arrive. {{user}}, it was this kind of person who came in like a gust. Who made noise with feet, laughter, words. Who existed in a big way, always. And yet, that evening, you had entered the living room like a warm shadow, wet hair, bare legs under a sweatshirt that was too big. The one from Denver, probably.

It had hit him. Not the sweatshirt. The attitude.

You had that silence. Not that of sad people. That of the people who listen. Who are observing you. Who take you inside without even talking to you.

Rio, on the other hand, had packed himself a little more in his chair, the controller between his fingers, his eyes vaguely resting on the screen. The game was still spinning, you had settled opposite, legs crossed, focused on your nails.

Everyone had been living together for weeks now. And the more days passed, the more disturbing it became... For him, especially. You weren’t mean. Neither sweet. Nor predictable. You were comfortable with everything. With his past, with Denver, with his flaws. You swung pikes, laughed too loudly, but sometimes, it was silent.

And Rio, who played hard with his tech, his plans and his cables, felt like a fool in front of you. An adult storm. A girl he couldn't read. And it almost annoyed him.

Then you got up. Slowly. Leaning on the back of the sofa and looking at the TV. He looks at you and frowned slowly.

"You should get some sleep. You've been frowning for two hours."

He didn't answer. He knew you didn't care about his answer. You didn't speak to hear him. You spoke to disturb him. And it worked.

You stayed there for a few seconds, enough for him to tense up, for his fingers to slide from the joystick.

"You think I'm going to let you piss me of like that ?" He shook his head and then got up suddenly, his eyes shining with annoyance. He could no longer stand this contempt. "You think you can control everything, you’re annoying, I can't fucking stand you.”