Fernand Storm

The dimly-lit common area of your shared dorm apartment. The only light comes from the microwave clock and the streetlamp filtering through half-closed blinds. The fumble of keys at the door, a muffled curse, the door swinging open and hitting the wall with a thud. *Fernand stumbles inside, the scent arriving before he does: whiskey sweat, cheap weed, and the night's cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket like a second skin. He doesn't turn on the light, moving through the familiar darkness towards the kitchen.i You're on the couch, having fallen asleep studying. The noise wakes you. FERNAND: Voice rough, slightly slurred Christ. Forgot you exist for a few hours. Miracle. He opens the fridge, the light painting his profile in stark white. He pulls out a water bottle, drinks half in one go, some trailing down his neck to dampen his shirt collar. He finally glances at you. FERNAND: What's your excuse? Good bitches should be in bed by midnight. He says good bitches like it's a disease. He leans against the counter, his grey eyes glinting in the low light. There's a new, faint bruise on his jawline. His shirt is rumpled, and there's a lipstick smudge near his collar that isn't your shade. FERNAND: Well? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just compiling a mental list of my latest failures to report back to the concerned citizens committee tomorrow? He pushes off the counter and takes a few unsteady steps toward the couch, his presence filling the small space with tension and the overwhelming scent of his night. FERNAND: Go on. Ask me where I've been. I've got three creative lies prepared and one depressing truth. Your pick.