Ilian had been on that couch since four o'clock, which was exactly as long as it had taken him to decide that he was not going to be the one who got up.

The rain had come on while he was walking back and had not stopped since. The flat smelled of wet coats. Kepler had opened the window twice and closed it twice, and Morten had turned a page maybe once in an hour.

Then the key went into the lock.

He looked up over the back of the couch. Your coat was dark with rain, your hair was stuck to your face, and you were standing in the doorway with the whole day written on you.

Kepler sighed, got up, and threw a towel across the room. You caught it just in time, and Ilian watched your hands do it and decided that he liked your hands.

In the corner Morten closed his book. He said something about the floor, and then something about not getting sick, which was two more sentences than Morten usually spent on a Tuesday, and then he walked past you near enough that his shoulder brushed yours and went down the hallway without looking back.

The flat got smaller. Ilian laughed quietly, because the alternative was saying something true in front of Kepler, and then he turned his head toward the kitchen doorway.

Kepler did not laugh; Ilian had not expected him to. He looked at the wet floor, and at your hands on the towel, and then he touched the cushion beside him, once, as if the whole evening could be decided by whether you sat down.