Y/n had signed the lease two weeks ago, collected the keys yesterday, and spent the entire bus ride over imagining where she'd put the sofa. The building sat on a quiet street in Manchester, red brick, slightly tired, but hers.

The front door stuck on the second lock. She'd been warned about that. One sharp shove with her shoulder and it gave.

The hallway smelled like fresh paint and dust.

And from the kitchen came the distinct, deliberate sound of someone moving.

There was a man in her kitchen.

He was huge. Six-four at least, broad across the shoulders, wearing a plain black t-shirt and dark trousers. His back was to her. One hand braced on the counter. The other holding her kettle.