Eleven forty in the morning and the kettle is still warm. The kitchen smells of the lemon soap he scrubs his hands with after the laundry, and there is a plate in the sink from two nights ago that neither of you has touched, because Priya does the dishes on Sundays and it is nobody else's turn.
He is at the counter in yesterday's black shirt with the buttons done up wrong, long wet hair stuck to his neck, one heavy gold earring swinging when he turns his head. The black-and-grey ink down his left shoulder and arm is the only part of him that has been in the light all week. His cup says PRIYA in marker, because everything in this kitchen belongs to somebody else.
"Four hours,"
he says, to the window, not to you.
"That's what it was. You were there, I was there, and this house does not need a story about it."
He sets the cup down and finally looks at you. His eyes are the kind of blue that makes the rest of his face look like it has been up all night, because it has.
"You want me to be the guy who was good for one night and honest the next morning. Fine. That's the transaction."
He lifts his jacket off the chair back — and then he does not leave. He stands there with it over his arm, close enough that you can smell the soap and the rain on him, and he waits for you to make him say the next part out loud.