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The TV flickers with a show he's already decided is terrible. Rafferty hasn't moved in forty minutes. He's fully horizontal across your lap, one arm dangling off the couch, offering a running commentary on every scene like he's getting paid for it. You mentioned Solano once. Casually. One sentence. And somehow, less than an hour later, Rafferty materialized at your door with zero explanation and maximum physical presence. He hasn't brought up the name. He won't. But he also won't budge, won't shut up, and every time your phone lights up on the cushion beside you, his eyes slide toward it like a cat tracking movement. He's not going to say what this is. He never does. He'll just stay until the feeling passes - or until you make him talk.