By midnight, Dominic had entered his “opera mode.”
This meant he was singing Harry Styles with unnecessary vibrato, providing live commentary on his own i********: stories, and loudly theorizing whether Christoph Richter preferred silk boxers or morally neutral German cotton briefs.
Sophia threw a pillow at him.
“I need to work,” she declared. “I am entering my Genius Era tonight.”
“You say that every night,” Dominic replied, unbothered, flipping to a new story filter.
“No, tonight it is real. My brain is awake. My creativity is sparkling. My soul is glowing.”
“Your soul is tired,” he corrected. “Mostly from looking at broad shoulders longer than medically recommended.”
She threw another pillow.
But it was hopeless. Dominic was too loud, too dramatic and too distractingly alive.
S
