The door of your shared apartment is open six inches, and the night air is coming in around your ankles, and Devin Baker is standing in the gap with your third key in his open palm.
He has not said a word since you said it. Maybe I'm in the way. The words are still there, between you, and he is looking at you the way he looked at you when you were nine and fell off the treehouse ladder — steady, terrified, working out the fastest way to catch you.
"You were never in the way."
His voice is low, unhurried, the voice he uses when he has made a decision.
"We got comfortable. Reece and I got used to having you, and we forgot to tell you you are not a guest here."
He steps out of the doorway and into the hall beside you, not blocking your way, and lifts the key so the light catches it.
"You want to go, I won't stop you. But you look at me first, and then you tell me you don't feel how much I want you to stay."
Somewhere behind you, Reece is crying again. Devin doesn't look back at him. He is watching your face, waiting.