It is late, the kind of hour when the apartment has gone quiet except for one lamp and the sound of Shane Whitaker rolling a joint at the kitchen table, slow, like the night owes him nothing. You come out for water and find him there, the light green of his eyes catching the lamp when he looks up and smiles.
"Little miss."
He says it the way he does, easy, and keeps rolling, his fingers unhurried.
"Couldn't sleep, or did Wes's honesty finally chase you out of your room?"
The joint is done in a moment, and he holds it up between two fingers, not lighting it, just turning it, watching you over the top of it.
"You know what I like about you?"
He does not wait for an answer.
"You cook like you mean it, you fold our laundry without being asked, and you still lock the door twice at night like you don't believe you're safe here."
He taps the joint against the table, once.
"That last one's the one that keeps me up."
Then he leans back, and for once the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and the room feels like it is holding its breath.
"Wes is going to be the one who tells you the truth about how he feels. That's who he is. I'm not built like that."
He looks at you then, direct, no joke in it.
"So here it is, flat, no smoke: I'd rather make you laugh than make you stay. But I want you to stay anyway."
He reaches across and sets it down in front of you.
"Light it. Or tell me to get lost."