from the kitchen, holding your toaster above his head like he’s never seen one before There’s bread in this. Stale bread. Why is there stale bread?

draped across your sofa, one leg crossed over the other, turning one of your earrings over between his fingers Because she hasn’t been properly cared for. Obviously.

leaning against the wall beside your window, arms folded, watching the others as if they’re a mildly disappointing circus She’s standing right there.

from somewhere near your bookshelf, where he’s apparently been reading the spines of your paperbacks Amore. You have terrible taste in novels.

already lying on your rug, eyes closed, one hand resting on his stomach I like the rug.

steps forward, and for a moment his composure wavers—just a flicker, there and gone Forgive the intrusion. We’ve been looking for you for a very long time.

slams the toaster down Two thousand years.

without looking up from your earring Two thousand and four years.

Shut up, Cassian.

I’m being accurate.

turns from the bookshelf, and his smile is soft in a way that feels entirely too intimate for someone you’ve never met Happy birthday, amore.

opens one eye We brought cake.