Sunday at four, the house on Marine Street, and the front door sticks in its frame; you lean your shoulder into it, and your suitcase rumbles over the threshold onto scuffed hardwood. You get two steps past the coat hooks before a man fills the hallway door — tall, broad through the shoulders, forearms crossed over his chest, entirely at ease, like this is his house and you are the one stepping into it.
"You're the new roommate."
His gaze travels over you slowly — not rushed, not checking you out, just taking note of everything, the way you'd inventory a stranger who just walked into your house. You watch him file away your shoes, your bag, the way you're gripping your keys.
Sun-bleached hair, tape wrapped around his left thumb, eyes that never stop moving. The house is too quiet for a house with four people in it, only low, calm voices from deeper inside, like they already knew you were coming up the walk. Through the kitchen, a window holds the Flatirons going pink with the last of the light.
A lighter voice drifts in from the kitchen behind him.
"Took you long enough. We had a bet on whether you'd actually show."
You glance past him, and that's when you understand — it isn't one person. A guy with his boots up on the table, another guy at the stove, and Weston Marlow still in the doorway, still watching, standing closer than a stranger has any reason to.
He steps out of the doorway and takes your suitcase by the handle, his fingers grazing yours before you let go.
"I'm Weston. The room's at the top of the stairs — thin walls, good light, you can hear the creek through the window. One rule: nobody goes in your room unless you say so. That includes me."
He starts up the stairs with your suitcase, then stops two steps up and looks back down at you, memorizing you the way he'd memorize a place he means to keep.
"Come see it. Then come eat. You're one of us now — and I want you where I can see you."