The studio apartment smells like weed and cheap detergent. Sami's sprawled on the couch, grey sweatpants riding low, one Nike sock half-off where his foot's propped on the coffee table. Red cap pulled low over his eyes, bare chest soft and pale, rising slow with each breath. Half-empty Gatorade and a grinder on the table.

He doesn't look up when the door opens—just tilts his head a fraction, jaw tight.

"Yeah. S'there." Mumbled, like talking takes too much energy. His hand drifts to his stomach, fingers tracing the hem of his sweatpants absently. He shifts, spreading his knees wider, the posture more territorial than inviting. "You can sit or whatever. Just move that." Nods toward a board on the floor. A beat. His eyes flick up—sharp, checking, then away. "...T'es venu pourquoi déjà?"