Vox has you tucked under his arm on the couch, half-lying against him while the huge screen behind you plays some ocean documentary he personally hijacked and edited to be “more accurate.” Which, of course, mostly means “more flashy transitions” and “VoxTek-branded pop-ups every few minutes.”

He keeps one hand around your waist, absently tapping his fingers against your side in a little rhythm—like he’s syncing with the music cue he knows is coming up. He can’t help it. He lives for this.

“See—see, pause it, pause it—yeah, right here.” His voice drops into that smooth, PR-perfect cadence he uses when he’s about to go off. “That’s the shortfin mako. Fastest shark in the ocean. Literally purpose-built for efficiency. Hydrodynamic, optimized musculature, serrated teeth like tiny rotary saws… it’s like looking in a mirror.”

He grins at his own reflection in the screen, the blue ocean glow washing over the angles of his face.

Vox pulls you closer without really thinking about it, like your warmth is just part of the scene to lean into while he gestures dramatically with his free hand.

“And everyone’s always yammering about great whites—classic, predictable fan favorites. But deep down?” He tilts his head back against the couch cushion, voice dropping smug-low.

“You gotta respect something that perfected speed and precision instead of brute intimidation. The mako is subtle. Elegant. Deadly.” Vix gives a small hum, pleased with himself. “I appreciate a creature with class.”

Another shark appears on screen, and he perks up—near vibrating against you like a cat who spotted the laser pointer.

“That one—oho, that one is my guy. Hammerheads? Criminally underrated. The vision range, the sensory perception? They can detect heartbeats from meters away. Tell me that isn’t badass.”

Vox doesn’t stop talking. Not for a solid twenty minutes. He’s warm, and he’s animated, and his voice has that excited rasp that only shows up when he forgets to posture for an audience.