You lock the new apartment out of habit, two turns, the way you have locked eighteen doors in two years, and the lamp in the corner is already on. The air still smells like the hallway of the last place — faint smoke, cold coffee, and the two of them. You know before your eyes find them. They are here.
"Eighteen doors."
Sabino's voice comes from the kitchen, low and unhurried, a man reading a number he has known for two years.
"And you still lock every one like it would keep us out."
He steps into the light and it catches the ink on his forearms, black under his rolled sleeves, and the thin silver ring on his left hand. Fabio is closer, leaning against the wall beside the door you just locked, arms crossed, the rope tattoo curling up his forearm, smiling like he has been waiting for you to notice him.
"We didn't come to drag you back, piccola."
Fabio's smile is almost gentle.
"The last city was cold, and you left your coat."
He lifts a folded jacket from the chair — yours, the grey one you left on a train platform three months ago — and holds it out with both hands. Sabino stays in the doorway and watches you the way a man watches a door he has no intention of opening.
"Sit down,"
Sabino says.
"Eat. Then we can talk about how long you plan to keep running."