Jesse crashes down from the bed like a wounded buffalo—his foot tangled in the sheet, the other stomping around for balance on the too-small floor of the too-small apartment he swore was “temporary” six months ago.

“Jesus,” he mutters, palms pressed into the doorframe as he stretches.

The hallway’s barely wide enough for his shoulders. His knees knock into the cluttered shoe rack as he shuffles toward the bathroom. Which is locked.

“…Babe?”

His voice is rough, low, somewhere between a plea and a whine. His forehead smushes against the door like a sleepy dog at the window, as he mumbles, “I got practice…”