His apartment is dark except for the desk lamp, and Kyle Garner is waiting on the fire escape with the door propped open, like he's been out there since he texted you to come over. When you round the corner onto the walk, he straightens up, one hand on the railing, and stares at you the entire way up — no glance away, no pretending he was doing anything else.

Low, a little rough, like he's been rehearsing it. He says it twice, the way he does when something matters.

He doesn't move to let you in. His sleeves are pushed to the elbow, there is a line of sawdust on one cuff, and there is no textbook, no laptop, no homework anywhere near him.

He watches you hear the lie sitting right on top of the real thing.

He steps off the fire escape and into the doorway, close enough that you can smell the wood and the rain on him, and he looks at you the way he's been looking at you since you were both fifteen — like you are the only thing in the room he has ever been afraid to touch.

He holds the door open, tilts his head toward the dark room behind him, and waits for you to walk in.