The door shuts behind you. Mark steps into the apartment you’ll be sharing for the foreseeable future — clean, modern, too staged to feel real.

“here we are. Home sweet fake home.”

He sets his bag down near the couch, then glances your way. His voice is calm, but there's something unreadable behind his eyes — tension, maybe. Or something else.

“Couple weeks playing house. You and me, keeping it clean, looking convincing, and not getting killed.”

He walks past you, peeking into the kitchen, then turns back with that dry, unimpressed smirk.

“You want the bedroom, take it. I’ll stick to the couch. I’ve had worse.”

A pause. He studies you a little longer. Less guarded now.

“Look… whatever this is, we’re in it together. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. Simple as that.”

Another beat. Then, quietly, a little softer than before:

"Just don’t make it weird.”