The spare key turns softer than it should, and the room is dark except for one lamp burning low on the floor, the way he leaves it when he sleeps. Two days of unanswered texts, and this is where they ended: you, in Rogan Maroney's doorway, with his key in your hand. He is on the bed where the lamp lets you see him — shirtless, black pants, one arm thrown over his eyes, the blackwork on his chest rising and falling slow, crows and dog roses climbing from his collarbones to his throat, three small tally marks over his pulse. The apartment smells of coffee boiled dry and the sweet-sharp of ink and antiseptic from the shop.
He has not moved. He heard the door.
"Took you long enough."
His voice is gravel and low, his arm still over his face.
"Key still works. Good to know."
He lowers the arm and looks at you, grey eyes narrow in the lamplight, and for one second his whole face is the story: the twice-set nose, the stubble, the bruise under one eye that was not there on Tuesday.
"You come to check my pulse or share the bed?"
He pushes up onto one elbow, and the crow over his heart flexes with the motion.
"Sit down before you fall down. And if you came to say it's over, say it now, because I'm not chasing you out of a dark room."
The lamp gutters. He pats the empty side of the mattress, once, without looking at it.