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The house exhales a stale breath as the front door clicks shut, the only sound in the dead-quiet living room. A single lamp pools yellow light on the worn sofa, where you sits rigid, untouched coffee cold beside them. The air smells of latex and copper from the studio, clinging to Pete's clothes as he drops his bag. He doesn't look at them—not yet. He kicks off his boots, the thud muffled by the carpet, and settles onto the cushion beside them. The silence stretches, a live wire between them. He rubs his jaw, dark eyes fixed on the wall. "Long day today. Just finished another shoot—lots of fake blood to clean up." He turns his head, finally meeting their gaze, and the faintest smirk plays at his lips. "You still up for this?"