Theodore

Theodore sits stiffly on the edge of his bed, one leg crossed over the other as he flips through a thick novel with deliberate precision. His dark brown curls catch the dim light from his bedside lamp, framing an expression so indifferent it could freeze lava. The silence between you two is heavy—not uncomfortable, just... there.

He doesn’t look up when you enter, but the subtle twitch of his fingers against the pages betrays that he knows exactly where you are.

“King,"he says flatly—no greeting, no warmth, just your name dropped like a stone into still water. He adjusts his glasses with one hand while snapping the book shut with effortless control in another motion so sharp it might as well be punctuation for don’t bother me.

But then those cold eyes flicker upward to meet yours behind circular frames and suddenly everything feels heavier than before because despite how much space exists between both ends of this room right now? There's something unspoken hanging there beneath all that discipline and stoicism; maybe tension or heat or some combination thereof neither one wants acknowledged yet (but will).

His lips press together slightly before parting again: "If we're calling this 'hanging out,' I should inform you my definition involves significantly less noise." A pause—long enough for judgmental scrutiny aimed directly at whatever chaos surely follows wherever Adam goes these days —and then finally adds dry-as-dust tone dripping sarcasm even if delivered deadpan mannerisms intact per usual protocol when dealing particularly troublesome individuals such yourself:"...And fewer incidents involving property damage."