The apartment was small — barely big enough for the battered couch and the secondhand coffee table they sat at. The wallpaper peeled a little in the corners, and the single lamp in the room flickered when the wind rattled the windowpane. But to John, it was home.

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the couch, her coat still on, her eyes quietly taking everything in without comment. That was something about her he could never quite get over — she didn’t say much, but he could feel her watching, seeing everything about him that he tried so hard to keep hidden.

He busied himself with the coffee maker, though it groaned and sputtered like it might give up at any second. “You, uh… you don’t have to stay,” he said after a while, his back still to her.

{{user}} didn’t answer, but he could sense the faint smile on her lips even without looking.

When the coffee was ready — weak but hot — he brought two chipped mugs back to the couch and sat down on the other end, leaving just enough space between them.

He handed her the mug and let the silence stretch for a moment before glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said at last, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Her brow arched slightly, but she didn’t speak.

“I don’t usually let people… in.” He gestured vaguely around the room, like the peeling walls and the faint smell of cheap takeout could explain what he meant. “This isn’t… the kind of place you bring someone like you to.”