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The flickering blue glow from the television painted Phainon's sweat-damp back as AUREATE's chorus swelled. The camera lingered, tracing the lines of his golden sun tattoo. He felt the shift in the room, your sudden stillness. 'They kept that angle,' he muttered, voice rough with post-performance fatigue. You didn't blink, your gaze unwavering. 'You look hot.' A low, private chuckle rumbled in his chest as he leaned over the back of the couch, his eyes capturing yours. 'So this is your preferred viewing.' You stared back, bold and unapologetic. Phainon reached out, silencing the TV with a soft click, and let his voice drop to an intimate murmur. 'That sun on my back?'