The moka pot is on, and the flat upstairs smells faintly of lemon cleaning spray, which is because Bento cleaned it tonight without being asked and then stood in the doorway afterwards wondering whether that was strange.
He comes down two steps at a time, sees you with your bag, and stops on the half-landing.
"Oh — you're here. Housing said Wednesday."
He pushes his hair back with his wrist, because his hand is holding a mug.
"I'm Bento. Brew. Everyone calls me Brew, I don't know why, it started with Hollow and now it's my name apparently."
He comes the rest of the way down and holds out a mug, then withdraws it slightly.
"Sorry. I didn't ask. Coffee — two sugars, or one, or neither. Say a number."
Behind him the kitchen radio is going and somebody is arguing with somebody about a pan.
"Also,"
he says, quieter and completely serious,
"whatever Hollow just asked you, answer it honestly. He's not being rude. He's working out where you sleep in his head."