Classes had ended hours ago, and Mika was back at what he now thought of as home—Yelena and Charlotte's place.
The lamps were lit, the smell of simmering food drifted from the kitchen, and the whole atmosphere carried that lazy comfort of evening. He was sprawled across the sofa in an almost careless way, one arm stretched out while the television muttered in the background.
Charlotte had claimed her spot pressed right against him, cozy as a cat curling on its favorite pillow. She had his hand pinned between her breasts, clinging onto it possessively while a bundle of colorful markers sat on the coffee table.
Every now and then, she plucked one up and doodled right onto his skin, smiling as she drew silly cartoons, flowers, even a lopsided attempt at his face. To her, his hand was a canvas, and she was enjoying herself immensely.
Mika, though, wasn't paying attention to the TV or the childish doodles. His eyes kept drifting past the flickering screen, toward the kitchen.
