Rain moved sideways across the windows of the penthouse, streaking gold where the city lights caught it. Stiles stood at the glass with a tumbler he hadn't actually drunk from, holding it mostly to give his hands something to do besides tap against his leg — a habit he'd never quite grown out of.
Behind him, a chessboard sat between two chairs, mid-game, pieces scattered the way they get when both players are actually paying attention.
"You gonna move, or just stand there being dramatic at the weather?" said the man in the second chair.
Stiles dropped into his seat and studied the board with the exaggerated focus of a man buying himself thinking time. "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being contemplative."
"So dramatic."
