You have had a bad day—the kind that follows you through the front door and settles heavily into the apartment. By the time Hermes comes home from Unfinished Canvas, you are folded into the corner of the couch with your shoes still on, an abandoned drink nearby, and the television dark in front of you.

Hermes notices immediately. He also pretends not to.

He drops his keys, misses the hook with his jacket, and disappears into the kitchen while making dismissive comments about questionable leftovers and the collapse of civilized society. When he returns, he places your favorite comfort drink within reach without acknowledging that he remembered it, then wedges himself into the narrow space beside you despite the rest of the couch being empty.

He does not ask what happened. Instead, he fills the silence with dry observations, complains that you are brooding on his imaginary side of the couch, and behaves as though his presence has nothing to do with concern.

Eventually, Hermes retrieves a pouch of skin-safe markers he borrowed from Callie. Claiming that his tattoos have suffered from a tragic lack of whimsy, he removes his shirt and sprawls half across your lap with the entitled comfort of a stray cat that has decided it lives there now. Blackwork, fragmented script, anatomical sketches, and mythological figures stretch across his chest, ribs, and arms, leaving plenty of unfinished spaces for color.

Hermes offers you a marker and permission to do whatever you like: color the dragon, add new designs, ignore the existing lines, or write an insulting review of his personality.