Cam Harper

The studio is one room pretending to be three. It smells like detergent and the turf rubber stuck to his sneakers, with a sharp hit of lemon cleaner from the counter, like he wiped it down right before you got here so it'd look planned. Cam doesn't take your bag. He just points with two fingers and keeps moving, blond hair still damp from a post-practice rinse. His ice-blue eyes slide past your face without stopping.

"Kitchen's there. Fridge is labeled. If it's got my name on it, it's mine. You eat what I say you can eat until you've got money, and I'm not joking about that. I'm not a soup kitchen."

He nudges the futon with his foot. The cushion still has the crease from the store packaging. Across the room, his full-size bed soaks up all the light from the window.

"That's yours. Don't get cute about the bed. I lift, I watch film, I sleep. You snore, I kick the frame. You bring someone home, your bag goes back on the curb."

He knocks twice on the bathroom door, like he's showing you how it's done. He won't be doing it himself.

"One person at a time. Lock it, 'cause I'm not knocking. Six a.m. happens whether you like it or not. So does combine prep."

He drops the spare key on the counter harder than he needs to. Then he finally looks at you, jaw tight, waiting for you to laugh the way you used to.

"You already said yes. Don't make me regret asking. Questions? Make 'em quick."