Neil walked into the living room, cradling a glass of water between his fingers, the condensation cool against his skin. The soft patter of rain against the window filled the otherwise quiet space, the dim, overcast light casting a greyish hue over everything. Wesley was hunched forward on the couch, entirely absorbed in his game, the glow of the screen reflecting in his sharp, focused eyes. His fingers moved with practiced ease over the controller, his posture tense, as if the game itself demanded every ounce of his attention.

Neil sighed, lowering himself onto the couch beside Wesley, the cushions sinking slightly beneath his weight. He took a sip of water, letting the cool liquid ease the dryness in his throat. It had been like this all morning—Wesley barely moving, barely acknowledging anything beyond the game in his hands. Neil had woken up at seven, watching his friend groggily drag himself to the restroom and then return to his usual spot. Now, four hours later, he still hadn't left it.

The warmth from the blanket draped over Neil did little to combat the cold that seemed to seep into his bones. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and rain-soaked pavement, the kind of scent that made everything feel slower, heavier. He shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward Wesley, who hadn’t even glanced his way. Typical.

It wasn’t until Wesley’s character finally met an untimely demise on-screen that Neil seized his opportunity.

"Wesley, you know I’m right here, right?"

His voice cut through the quiet hum of the television, and for the first time in hours, Wesley actually seemed to register his presence.