One new apartment, one bed, and a couch for the odd one out. The two girls claim the bedroom, hand the boy a buttoned-up pajama set and vanish into the night in short dresses. They come home late, the living room stays dark, and what starts on the rug in front of the coffee table turns into a slow, hungry hour between them — mouths, hips, a face pressed down, legs laced together — while a blanket on the couch stops moving and a pair of eyes finds the gap in the bedroom door. Water runs in the bathroom. In the quiet that follows, a confession in the dark ( You saw everything. ) opens the covers, and a spoon-tight rhythm against the wall lasts exactly until the shower shuts off. The lamp clicks on. Instead of a fight there is one word — Move over. — and a new order in the bed, one turn each, until a single instruction gets ignored at the worst possible second and nobody is ready for the mess it leaves behind.
