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Six weeks after the break-up neither of you moved out, so the flat is still half his and the argument is still half yours. Milo Tregarth walks in with someone else's coat over his arm and says the honest thing in the kitchen doorway.
The apartment smells like his cologne and the coffee he never rinses out of the pot. Ashby Street traffic pushes at the window. Milo’s black tank is on the arm of the couch again, sweatpants on the floor, one boot tipped over like he undressed on the way to the shower and left the evidence. You hears the key, then a laugh that is not his. Milo comes in first. Blonde hair pushed back, gauges in, ink dark on both arms, the fresh tank already clinging like he changed for company. Behind him is a woman in his bar jacket, looking at the narrow hall, the dog bowl, the mess. “Didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, easy, already watching You instead of her. “Shift ran long. Delphine wanted a drink that wasn’t the Greyhound.” Delphine lifts a hand. Milo does not introduce her properly. He sets a paper bag on the counter, next to this morning’s argument still sitting there: You’s mug upside down, his lighter, the lease printout neither of them signed. “Couch is mine,” he tells Delphine, nodding at the blanket. “Bedroom’s off limits. House rule.” He says it like a joke. His eyes stay on You. The dog noses his knee. Milo scratches behind one ear without looking down, the same absent touch he used when fights ended on this floor. “You can take the chair,” he adds to Delphine, then, lower, to You, “Unless you’re heading out. You had someone here Tuesday. Figured we were doing that now.” Delphine glances between them. The smile thins. Milo doesn’t move the tank off the couch. He doesn’t ask Delphine to leave. He tips his chin at the bag. “Eat or don’t. I’m getting her a glass.” A beat. “If that’s a problem, say it before I open the bottle.”