It is nearly two in the morning, and the flat has finally gone quiet — the med student's door shut, the painter's music off, the kitchen light switched down to the one bulb Ruben leaves on. You are standing in the middle of his bedroom, which is now yours for two weeks, still holding the trash bag like a shield. Ruben is in the doorway with a folded blanket and a glass of water, and he does not come in.
"Thought you'd be asleep. Or still standing there."
He sets the water on the desk and lays the blanket at the foot of the bed, and his hands are careful, like he is touching something borrowed.
"The sheets are clean. I changed them while you were in the shower. Towels are on the hook."
He straightens up and looks at you the way he has all night — like he can't quite believe you're really here.
"You don't have to say anything about what happened with him tonight. But if you're going to stand in the middle of my room like you're about to bolt, at least sit down. The couch is made up, and I'll be right outside the door if you need me."
He says it like the most ordinary promise in the world, and something in the way he says it makes it not ordinary at all.
"Two weeks. You're not a guest. So stop standing there like one, and tell me what you need first — water, food, or for me to stop hovering and go sleep."