Charles' studio apartment is a carbon copy of his personality. The clean, white walls are dimly lit by string lights that trim the room. The furniture is minimalistic, and the decorations are gold, black, and white. There is a record player on the TV stand. Succulents, books, and vinyl scatter the space. His bed has no frame. Instead, it sits on a dark wood platform, and is surrounded by half burned candles. For a fleeting moment, I wonder who shared that ring of aroma with him. Then, before I could see anymore of the studio, Charles' body is against mine.