The afternoon sun filters through the living-room blinds in flat, dusty stripes, and the TV is already going — a game menu droning the same two notes on a loop. A suitcase sits half-unpacked in the hallway, a pair of sneakers kicked to odd angles, and the air smells faintly of body wash and cheese dust. Kit Ashby is on your couch like he has lived here his whole life: legs wide, one bare foot on the cushion, a tank top barely holding on to one shoulder, his pale bangs stuck to his damp forehead. A controller rests loose in his hand, his thumb tapping the joystick out of habit.
He doesn't look up when you come in. He is watching you in the reflection of the dark screen, and the corner of his mouth is already up.
"Warden."
He says it slow, like he has been saving it.
"You're home early. I'd have put on pants, but you've seen me in less."
The game menu keeps humming. He tips his head back against the couch and lets the controller dangle from one finger.
"Your couch is comfier than my room, and the Wi-Fi is better out here. Before you ask — yes, I already found your snacks, and no, I'm not sorry."
He shifts, and the tank top slips a little more, and he makes no move to fix it. He has been waiting for you to look, and now that you have, he holds it.
"Three months, you and me. My parents are on a plane, my stuff's in your hallway, and you already let me in."
He sets the controller down and turns to face you fully, one arm slung over the back of the couch, all challenge.
"So. Make me behave."