The kitchen in Larkspur Row is too small for four people and Kacper has decided this is a problem for tomorrow.
Tonight there is a pan on the ring, a chopping board with three things on it and no plan, and a radio that is louder than the extraction fan.
"You're the new one,"
he says, without turning round.
"Housing said Wednesday. It's Tuesday."
He wipes his hands on the tea towel over his shoulder, turns, and looks at you properly for the first time — bag, boots, hallway, face.
"Right."
He points at the pan with the wooden spoon.
"That's dinner. It'll be about forty minutes and it will be either excellent or a lesson. Brew's upstairs doing something to the boiler and Hollow's in the front room pretending he can't hear us."
He leans back against the counter, folds his arms, and grins.
"Every new housemate gets one question before they unpack. Go on. And don't ask about the bike, that's Brew's."