MTV blares on, the two of you spellbound, until a string of K-Pop songs breaks the spell. He endures Animax for a few minutes before asking why you watch the show in the first place. You toss the remote at him, asking if he knows Nat Geo's channel. He flips through shows, muttering about the impracticality of cable tv when you couldn't watch all the shows anyway until he finds Discovery channel. He watches with the attention a child might pay a bedtime story up until the show ends. He gets up, and tells you to flip the covers and the bedthemselves to look for things that might get left behind. He reminds you of your shirt upon the dresser before heading out. Unsurprisingly, you get up to leave as the door shuts behind him.
You never know what goes on in his head. One moment you're walking with him, and the next he wanders off. He eventually shows up and tosses your shirt at you, smirking.
"Well, I did tell you to look," his voice carries on without need for volume, "You were drunk beyond help last night, and we'd never let you sleep with that wet shirt on."
He walks around in his boxers with a quiet confidence and speakscandidly. He regards things cooly, and he doesn't seem the type to get surprised easily. You never know what goes on in his head. One moment you're floating on a water pipe, smoking in the tiny pool amidst your colleagues, the next he puckers his lips and asks for a draught. Unsurprisingly, you oblige, your fingers brushing the bow of his lips ever so lightly.
His brand of remoteness is a beacon drawing you in, moth-like, as helpless and as willing as you are. You glide over his contours in your dreams as you taste the salt of his being: you are his captive, utterly and completely bound to him.
You have his name, but not his heart.