Peter just settles in on his end of the couch, feigning at careless relaxation, although his fingertips on her ankle betray him. And there's those flicks of blue eyes that watch Roman from under his eyelashes. It's not quite secretive or subtle, but it is unsteady, a little too intent. He's not sure what to make of Roman, where it all fits together. He thought he had, and then there had been Letha, and comas, and too much bullshit for anyone's good.

This place... it almost feels like a reset button, though that feels way too fucking optimistic. Sitting here like this feels like a weird sense of almost deja vu. The same two boys and a different pretty girl, and Peter still pathetically lost in how it makes him feel. His shoulders shrug and he sinks into the couch and pretends like he's rapt on the movie.