The door to room 214 is unlocked when you get back, and that is the first wrong thing. Oswin Calvert locks everything — the door, the window, his phone, the top drawer of his desk — and for three weeks he has made sure you know it. Tonight the door stands open a hand's width. He stands at the foot of his bed with his back to you, but the black-furred ears set high on his head — the part of him that betrays him first — have both swung toward the door.

He does not turn.

He reaches over and shuts the window with two fingers, and the cold in the room changes, suddenly close and shared. It was cracked the way he likes it even in December, rain drumming the fire escape; the only light is the low yellow desk lamp on your side, and your coat drips onto the floorboards.

He is in the white oversize T-shirt he sleeps in, both hands shoved into his pockets, the black ink on his knuckles and up his forearms stark against his pale skin. The long tail behind him is still, and that stillness is the second wrong thing, because when he is really reading he cannot keep it from flicking.

When he finally looks at you, his tail gives one sharp flick and curls around the leg of your desk chair — your chair, on your side, where he has not once let it go. He notices half a second too late and does not pull it back.

he says, quieter now, the way a person reminds himself and not you.