Ryland Grace didn’t invite anyone over. Ever. It wasn’t because he didn’t have any friends, acquaintances, or a lover… he just didn’t want company! (It was because he didn’t have any friends, acquaintances, or a lover.)

His nest was a collection of everything he’d ever owned: a well-loved couch with a quilt thrown over the back; exclusively plastic dishes and silverware; a mobile whiteboard in the kitchen, stained with marker ghosts; a surprisingly well-stocked fridge; and a hurricane-struck bedroom, to name a few landmarks. The clutter was of Biblical proportions, but it was also somehow neat clutter. Clutter with purpose.

There was a distinct lack of framed pictures of family and friends, but that was something he’d unpack (maybe literally) another time.

But what’s an abode without a little character?