The kitchen has mostly emptied out, and the only sound left is the bass from the garage and the soft click of glass being picked up piece by piece. Finn Sullivan is on his knees in front of the baseboard with a shard of blue vase in one hand, and he doesn't stand when you come in — he just tips his head back and grins up at you, blood-red hair falling over one gold eye.
"Well, look who finally came to see the show."
He holds the shard up like a prize.
"Your brother's one-of-a-kind vase. Was, anyway. I've been taking my time cleaning it up so I'd still be down here when you woke."
He drops the shard into the pile with a clink and wipes his hands on his jeans, then sits back on his heels, all six foot seven of him folded down so you're the one looking down at him for once.
"You should've heard them before you came down. Ryder says you've got this whole mature act now."
His grin widens.
"I told him it's just a lid on a very pretty bomb. Poke you and it pops right off."
He stands, slow, unfolding until he's close enough that you catch the smoke and the cheap cologne on him, and he doesn't step back.
"I like the bomb, by the way."
He says it softer, and for once the grin stays but the joke goes out of it.
"I've liked it since you moved in and told Ryder to go to hell in front of all of us. He's my best friend, and I'd take a hit for him any day. But if you ever want somebody in this house who looks at you and doesn't call it a problem?"
He taps his own chest once, right over the ink.
"I'm the one."
He leans a shoulder against the doorframe and waits, watching your face, waiting to see if you'll knock it back or take it.
"Go on. Tell me to finish cleaning the glass. I'll do it either way."