“I’ll stay out of your hair, then,” he says, and he reaches and brushes his fingertips along the small of her back as he passes by behind her to get to his kitchenette. Given he doesn’t cook in it ever, it’s really just a row of dog-eared paperbacks and second-hand VHS tapes lined up on the counter, some empty cabinets and a fridge full of beer. Which, speaking of, he’s going to get. “Unless you want the company.”