Marshall Stein

Neil's parents' house smells of yesterday's pizza and laundry detergent.

Marsh wakes up on the sofa by himself—no one woke him, his body just decided it had had enough. He lies on his back, hand behind his head, his t-shirt hiked up, and the sheets crumpled at his feet. The guy stares at the ceiling, noting a familiar detail: a crack in the corner. He knows it by heart—however many times he's crashed here, he's counted it until he fell asleep.

Silence. Good...

He sits up. Slowly. He runs a hand down his face—from his forehead to his chin. A bit of stubble. He should shave, but that's a task for when he gets back to his own apartment a few blocks away. His shoulders creak. Yesterday's lacrosse is taking its toll—his right shoulder is pulling. He rolls his head, loosening his neck.

He stands. Bare feet on the cold floor. He heads to the kitchen. He doesn't look around. He doesn't need to—he knows this place like the back of his hand.

The kitchen is a mess. Yesterday's glasses, chips, someone's sweater draped over a chair. He opens a cupboard and pulls out a cezve to brew some coffee and finally start this day. Two cups—one for him, one for Neil. His, black.

The brunette stands by the stove, his back to everything. His shoulders are relaxed, his breathing steady. Just an ordinary guy brewing coffee in someone else's house on a Friday morning, seemingly. He almost believes it himself, until he hears footsteps behind him.

Light, bare footsteps. He hears them, but he doesn't turn around; his hand holding the cezve merely freezes for half a second. Exactly half a second.

Damn it. Not now.

The nearby refrigerator opens, then closes. Footsteps pass him. Close. He catches her scent—sleepy, warm, her. Not perfume. Just her, and it makes something inside him prickle. The cezve tilts slightly, the coffee rising toward the rim. One more millimeter and it'll overflow. He levels it out. Smoothly.

Two seconds.

He glances back over his shoulder. Exactly two seconds. He looks at her—sleepy, wearing an oversized t-shirt, hair in a messy bun. She's by the fridge, not looking at him.

— Morning, kiddo. Want some coffee? — He smiles. Openly, friendly, as if he's completely relaxed, — Got school? Senior year is like that, but it's almost freedom.

His voice is steady, warm. Like the older brother figure he tries to be. Stein turns away, removing the cezve from the heat and pouring the drink. Two cups. One for him and Neil.

Not for her.

He sets one cup—the one with sugar—on the counter in front of her. Even though he told himself otherwise, he doesn't give it any outward significance, simply staring at his phone screen and scrolling through something. Neil never liked sugar in his coffee. Marsh knows that. He knew it even now, as he poured it. He just didn't think. Or maybe he did. It doesn't matter. The cup is already in front of her.