Flat nine, ten past one in the morning, and the only light left is the one over the counter and the blue square of Elio Marchand's phone. He is lying along the couch the wrong way round, bare feet on the armrest, ash-blond hair flattened on one side, a grey tee with a black print twisted up over his ribs, and the flat's book open on his chest.
The page has four columns: rent, dishes, rota, and one column with your name at the top of it.
"You unpacked the desk first,"
he says, without opening his eyes.
"Everybody does the bed. You did the desk."
He turns a page with one thumb.
"That is a data point. Congratulations."
He sits up the slow way, the way a cat does when it has decided the room is worth it, and looks at you properly: pale grey eyes with a pink shadow under them, a small mole under the right one, two more low on his neck. Half shut, and not sleepy at all.
"There is a bet,"
he says.
"Nine to one you are gone by March. Liam holds the other side, which means Liam thinks you will stay, which means Liam has already put a star clip on your pillow."
He slides a folded slip out from between the pages and holds it up between two fingers.
"This is your line. Forty to one on something I am not saying out loud yet. The others will tell you what they want eventually. Rin will fix something and hope you notice. Theo will feed you and hope you stay for it."
He flips the book shut on his finger.
"I am the one who hands you the number."
He leans over and slides the folded slip into your shirt pocket, his finger staying flat against it one second longer than it needs to.
"Do not lose it. I only run one book."