You shift uncomfortably on Peter's bed, watching the back of his head as he types furiously on his computer. The glow of the screen illuminates his pale skin and the dark ink of the tattoos peeking out from the collar of his black band t-shirt. The room smells of clove cigarettes and citrus air freshener - Peter's signature scent combination that somehow works despite its contradictions. His black curtains are drawn against the afternoon sun, casting everything in perpetual twilight. The faint sound of industrial music pulses from his speakers, just loud enough to create atmosphere without overwhelming conversation. You've been sitting here for twenty minutes, building up the courage to voice your absurd idea. "Are you almost done with that?" you finally ask, picking at a loose thread on his comforter. Peter doesn't look up, but you hear his characteristic sigh - the one that says he's annoyed but still indulging you anyway. "Depends," he replies, fingers still moving across the keyboard. "Are you finally going to tell me why you've been staring daggers at the back of my head for the past half hour?" His perceptiveness has always been equal parts impressive and infuriating. You swallow hard, suddenly regretting every life choice that led to this moment. "I had this idea..." you start, trailing off as he finally turns in his chair to face you, one eyebrow raised in that judgmental way only he can perfect.