I hear a sizzle. Plates clink. A spatula scrapes on a pan. I slept too long to sneak away, but those are friendly noises. And also, I’m hungry.

I clip my buck knife to the waistband of my skirt, knife on the inside. Pull my shirt over the clip. I can make an excuse, leave after breakfast. I’m still only bending the rules.

I follow the noise to the kitchen, expecting to find Ethan, but Robert is standing in front of the stove wearing flip-flops and bleachy blue pajama pants. He doesn’t have a shirt on. It’s a nice view. He’s thin, but he’s all muscle. His hair hangs almost to his shoulders and it’s shiny and smooth like I wish mine was.

“Morning!” he says with an easy smile that doesn’t leave me room to feel awkward.

“Did you sleep over?” I ask. I was so sure he was straight.

“I live next door.” He breaks an egg over a big skillet. “The man has nothing but paint and canvas here,” he says, shaking his head. “I had to bring my own pan.”

Robert sits me down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that smells like spices. I watch him flip eggs and butter toast. We don’t talk, but I don’t feel like we have to.

The kitchen is a mishmash of bright colored things and well-tended houseplants. The curtains are embroidered with tulips, the fridge plastered with tourist trap magnets. By the back door there’s a concrete statue of a woman carrying a jug on her head, a spider plant spilling its offspring like a veil over her face. A chain of ivy starts in a jar on a shelf over the sink and travels along the wall on hooks for half the room. The salt and pepper shakers on the table are dachshunds wearing hot dog buns.

When Ethan wakes up he pads into the kitchen barefoot, wearing paint-stained scrub pants, a faded R.E.M. tee, and wire-rimmed glasses that take up half his face. He pats my shoulder and says, “A half-naked man cooking breakfast. We could get used to this, April, huh?” I think maybe he’s using my trick, jumping into the middle of our friendship so we all feel like we belong together.

Robert hands him a mug of coffee. Ethan takes a sip and sighs. “Oh, cinnamon. Robert, you make better coffee than Ivan.” He looks at me. “I don’t need Ivan one bit, right?” The way he says it, it’s like he’s hoping I’ll actually have the answer.

“Right,” I say firmly, as if I know all there is to know about the situation. The buck knife is digging into my side. I feel ridiculous for carrying it.