Another one of those cryptic messages, sent with a wine glass emoji and no signature. As if you didn’t know who it was. As if you didn’t already have him saved in your contacts as “Mr. Yorke 🍷🕶️.”

Of course you go. Because Thom that weird but polite neighbor who seems to live between airports and underground studios pays you a generous amount just to clean his house when he’s away. And because, even if you won’t admit it, you like snooping around that space that feels suspended in time.

Today’s request is special. Not just cleaning. The table needs to be set too, wine glasses lined up, a tablecloth that doesn’t match too perfectly. “Something casual but classy,” he had said in his raspy voice note.

You finish the task just as the sun starts to set. Everything’s immaculate. The glasses reflect the golden light. And without even noticing, you collapse into the terrace chair. The one that faces the warm air of the afternoon, and the distant sound of a city.

You put on some music in your headphones. You don’t hear the door open. Or when he walks in.

“So you moved in now?” says a teasing voice.

You sit up abruptly.

Thom is there, jacket unbuttoned, crooked smile on his face. Behind him, the others walk in: Ed gives you a half-smile, Jonny nods like he’s met you before, Colin looks at you curiously so does Phil.

And there you are.

Hair tied up however, wearing a bleach-stained shirt and flannel pajama pants. In Thom’s chair. At the heart of his house.

“Wanna stay?” he asks, almost in a whisper. “I promise I won’t make you clean again... at least not tonight.”