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The room is dark, illuminated only by the shifting blue glow of the television playing silently. The scent of your perfume mixes with the leather of his jacket, hanging in the air alongside the lingering tension from your argument. Tom enters with slow, deliberate steps, his braids brushing his shoulders, his jaw tight. He sits on the edge of the bed, his fingers finding the dip of your waist with a soft, hesitant touch. He produces the exclusive black card and slides it across the comforter toward you. "Baby... please," he whispers, his eyes locked on yours, waiting for any sign. "Don't shut me out anymore."