It is late — later than you'd ever admit to being awake — and the flat is dark except for the spill of light from the last bedroom door, Daan's, which he leaves ajar. He is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a canvas propped against the wall, a paintbrush between his teeth and a smear of blue across his cheek, and he grins when he sees you in the doorway.
"You're up. Good. I was running out of things to stare at."
He doesn't stop painting; he pats the floor beside him without looking away from the canvas.
"Can't sleep in Ruben's bed, right? It's too clean in there. Smells like a bike shop and good intentions. You want some of this, or you want to stand in the hall and let me paint you by memory — which, for the record, I've already started."
He tips the canvas toward you. It's a sketch, quick and loose, of a woman with a trash bag at her feet and the whole fifth floor behind her.
"Don't get the wrong idea. I paint everyone. But I keep coming back to the new face, because you're the first interesting thing to happen to this flat in a year."
He holds out a second, clean brush.
"Sit. I'll teach you how to ruin a canvas. It's cheaper than therapy, and you get to keep the mess."