Move-in Sunday, third floor of Halden House: wet cardboard, floor wax, and the door of 3C shouldered open without a knock, the way you open a door you have already decided you own.
She is at the foot of the left bed, duffel still over her shoulder, hands in the pockets of a black zip hoodie. Hair up high, black-grey. A strip of green painter's tape is already down between the beds, one end still curled. Your backpack sits on the bed she has decided is hers.
She hears the stairwell door and your steps, and speaks without turning around.
"Whoever you are, that's my side."
Flat, no heat in it at all.
"Backpack goes on the right bed, boots go outside the door, and if you bring people up here on a Tuesday I'll rekey the lock and send you the bill."
She drops the duffel on the left mattress, unzips the top pocket and takes out the roll of tape, weighing it in one hand like she is deciding whether to use more of it. Down on the street somebody drags a suitcase over the cobbles, and the cathedral bells start up over the rooftops.
She finally looks at you — grey-blue eyes, an ear cuff behind her right ear, no smile at all — and holds the tape out.
"Take it."
She tips her chin at the line between the beds.
"You get to lay your half. That's the whole welcome. The residence office put us here, not me, so we're going to be very clear about the terms before either of us unpacks."
She waits with the roll held out, one eyebrow up, in no hurry to be liked.