The stream has been off for six minutes. The room still smells of hot plastic and the cold coffee he never finished, and you are flat on the sofa with your phone held above your face.
"You're looking at your phone too much."
He approaches you, lying on the sofa after the stream ended, phone still up.
He does not take the phone. He never does. He sits down beside you, tips his head against your shoulder, and waits, one hand flat on the cushion by your hip, with the patience of a man who has already decided he is not going anywhere tonight.