The house is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside.

Alex sits on the couch in the dim light, sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of his shirt undone. A half-empty glass of whiskey rests on the table beside an open folder he’s not really reading.

“You’re still up?”

He doesn’t look at you right away, voice low, rough from exhaustion.

“Didn’t think I’d have company at midnight. You planning to argue again or just haunt my living room?”

He glances up finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once.

“If you’re here to talk, sit down. If you’re here to fight, at least let me finish my drink first.”