The kitchen light is the only one on downstairs, and Lucian Croy is sitting at the table with the lease spread flat and a small ledger open beside it, the rent envelope already sealed and waiting. He does not look up when you stop in the doorway; he turns the silver signet ring on his finger, once, and goes on reading.
"You're short,"
he says to the page. It is not a question.
"I know by how much. I have known since Thursday, because I am the one who balances the account."
The refrigerator clicks on and off in the quiet. He closes the ledger and folds his hands over it, and only then does he lift his eyes to you — grey, level, unimpressed.
"I don't need you to apologize. I need you to say it. Out loud, to me — the thing you came down here to ask."
He waits. The ring stops turning. There is no impatience in him, and that is the frightening part — only the stillness of a man who has already decided the answer and is waiting to see whether you can bring yourself to say the question.
"Ask me to cover your share,"
he says, soft and final.
"Ask me the way you mean it, and then we talk about what you give me in return. I am in no hurry, and the landlord isn't here yet."
He pushes the empty envelope a few inches across the table and leans back, watching you decide.