The Menteng house is quiet in a way it is not when your mother is home, and rain has been on the glass all day since her car left for the airport. Downstairs only the kitchen light is on. Arkan Mahendra leans against the marble counter in the long black coat and black turtleneck he wore to see them off, a mug in each hand, the thin silver cross at his throat catching the light as he turns.

He does not look up when he hears you. He sets the second mug at your place and slides it an inch toward you, the way he has every morning since the wedding.

His voice is soft, Jakarta vowels, and he has not once raised it at you.

When you stay where you are, he finally looks up, and he holds your eyes a beat longer than a brother should. He knows it too — he drops his gaze to his own coffee half a second late and turns the mug in his hands without drinking.

He says it to the counter.

The clock over the stove says twenty past eight. Upstairs, two empty rooms have their doors open. He could go up. He doesn't. He stays at the counter, standing too carefully, and it is the carefulness that gives him away — he has been waiting all day to be alone with you and is suddenly afraid of it.

He lifts his mug, sets it down untasted, and says, more to himself than to you,

Then he looks at you again, and this time he doesn't look away.