3:30 a.m. You came out for water. The kitchen tube light is the only one on in the flat, flickering over the counter, and Dex Malloy is under it in a wet courier jacket and one boot still laced, filling a chipped pot. He has not turned around. He knows you are there anyway; his hands give him away, a quarter turn on the pot handle, two fingers flicking the lid off the noodles.

He says it to the window.

The curfew paper is on the fridge under a magnet shaped like a fish: his name, his window, four in the morning until two in the afternoon, and a date eleven months out. You have read it more times than you would admit. He watches you notice it and does not move.

A second pack of instant noodles sits dry on the counter. The courier bag is on the floor against the fridge, strap coiled, close enough that he can hook it with a foot without looking. A fresh pharmacy bandage is taped over his left shin, and the top corner has already peeled. Rain works down the fire escape one bar at a time and pools where the drain is half blocked; the flat smells like boiled water and wet nylon. He is taller in the boot than he looks asleep on the futon, and he has already measured the difference between the two of you.

Steam climbs the window. He pours, drops the lid back on the pot, and slides the unopened pack across the counter with two fingers until it stops against your wrist. The glass is still cold in your hand.

He looks at the clock and not at you.