I left the chain off.

The next night I came home from work to find the lamp already on again. Harlan was in my kitchen this time, sleeves rolled up, pouring water into the kettle like he lived there. The spare key sat on the counter beside his wallet. He looked up when I stepped inside and simply nodded toward the couch.

“Sit. You look tired.”

I sat. The apartment already smelled faintly of his cologne. Harlan brought me a glass of water, then leaned against the counter and looked at me the same way he had the night before—slow, assessing, completely at ease inside my space.

“I came by...