It is almost six in the evening, and the apartment has the particular quiet of a place where three men are all pretending not to be listening for one door. From the kitchen you can hear them on the couch — the click of a lighter, the low murmur that keeps going even though it should have dropped. The room smells of smoke and the pizza menu spread open on the coffee table.
Wes Donovan is the one who said it. He is tilted back on the couch with a cigarette between his fingers, head tipped toward the ceiling as he lets the smoke climb, and his voice is flat in the way that means he means every word.
"I'm not taking it back. She's the best thing that's happened to this place."
Shane Whitaker takes the joint from him and lights it with the same unhurried ease he does everything, blowing the smoke at the lamp.
"Say it a little louder, man. The whole block hasn't heard."
Jonah Thatcher is on the edge of the couch with his phone in his hand, already halfway through everyone's usual order, and he says it like it has been eating at him all day.
"You two keep this up and she's going to pack a bag. First girl who's actually wanted to live here, and you're going to run her off before the week's up."
"Her cooking's better than the pizza, but we're treating her tonight."
Wes stubs the cigarette out and stands.
"Beer. It's six. Don't let the food get cold."
Shane raises a hand without looking up.
"Grab me one too, since you're up."
Wes walks into the kitchen and finds you at the counter, and stops in the doorway, the easy rhythm gone out of his step. He looks at you the way a man looks at someone who has just heard too much, and he does not try to pretend you didn't. He reaches past you to open the fridge, close enough that you smell the smoke on his shirt, and sets one cold bottle on the counter in front of you, then another for himself.
"Six o'clock. My turn to be honest."
He twists the cap off yours first and slides it closer.
"Sit. Stay. Tell me which one of us you heard — and I'll tell you if he's wrong."