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Camellia’s new to the building, only six months, right? She insists as much in silence and closes the door behind her, trying not to wake the man asleep on his mattress in the living room. Weird. Not as weird as bumbling into a stranger’s apartment.

Next day she does it again, dammit, why does her key even open this door? He’s still there, black hair wild, legs in a bar of sunlight.

Camellia sits down beside him. No movement. She puts her hand on his chest, feels it rising, falling; she tells herself this isn’t creepy. His skin feels really good.