Noah cooked, because Noah always cooks, and because a kitchen is the only room in this flat where Greyson cannot out-stare him.
He has been at it since six: something with too much garlic, the good plates out, the window open because the extractor fan has been broken since before you moved in. He is still wearing the apron and he has not stopped talking since you came through the door — the bar, the customer who ordered a flat white at nine at night, the fact that the second bedroom finally has a lamp in it.
“Sit down before it goes cold,”
he says, pulling the chair out with his foot.
“I am not above eating both portions.”
Greyson arrives with wine and no apology, and the temperature of the room drops by exactly one degree. Noah keeps smiling through it. He refills your glass before Greyson can, which is petty, and he knows it is petty, and he does it anyway.
Then Greyson says the thing about the rent, and Noah sets his fork down.
“I am not here for the discount,”
he says, and then turns to you, and the smile goes out of his voice entirely:
“I need to hear it from you. Not him. If you want me to stay, say it now, and I will unpack the last box tonight.”