While she waited in the doorway, he poured himself a glass of water, drank it, ate the last piece of Tristan's abandoned, half-cold toast and put the place next to the sink. He glanced at her and asked, "Did you want anything?"
With a vacant smile, she shook her head and only stepped further into the kitchen, slow and intentional, when he took a seat on one of the island stools. She stopped at the side of the counter and studied him, waiting for him to speak.
"Alright," he murmured, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. "What's up?"
"It's Spencer," she began with a stiff smile. Her shoulders were raised towards her ears, locked tight. 
"I might've guessed that," he replied, throwing her a look, leaning back against the stool and folding his arms over, "but what about Spencer?"
Her dark eyes gleamed and narrowed, and she watched him like she was waiting for some kind of trick, like she was waiting for him to try and catch her out on something. "He came over last night," she said warily, something shrewd flashing in her eyes.
"Well," he sighed deeply, "that's usually what happens when you have a boyfriend."
She gave him a tight smile with a dry hum of one-note laughter, scrunching her nose with false mirth. He returned the gesture; the same tight smile, the same mocking scrunch of the nose, relaxing his face again when she glared at him.
"He wasn't acting like himself last night so I asked him what was wrong," she began, pulling her bag strap further up her shoulder, "and he kept telling me that he was fine even though it was obvious that he definitely wasn't fine. Then he mentioned that he ran into you at the store."
"Alright," he shrugged. He could hear the birds whistling outside and could see the morning sunlight shooting across the kitchen. 
"So you did see him?" She asked, raising her eyebrows. 
"Yeah, I saw him," he answered lightly, taking another sip of water. The sound of the glass being placed back on the island counter took up all the space in the room. They lapsed into a brief silence that made the skin on the back of his neck prick with heat.
"And he gave you a ride home?" 
"He offered," he shrugged again, "so I took him up on it."
"What did you talk about?" She asked, her eyes fixed on him, and her body still. She tried to keep her voice light and casual, but the concentration in her eyes was too intense and her words were too hasty. "Anything interesting?"
"No."
A month ago, it wouldn't have been unusual for her to be there at ten in the morning on a bright, quiet Saturday. A month ago, it wouldn't have been unusual for her to be there at all. A month ago, she would've let herself in, still yawning, and wrapped her arms around him. He could hardly remember what it was like to kiss her. He could hardly remember what they used to talk about.
It was so young, so fresh and so far away that the sight of her in his kitchen felt like some kind of anomaly, some kind of error in the universe that he couldn't reconcile with. In a way, he half felt like he missed her. In more ways, he felt such emptiness at the sight of her that all he wanted was for her to leave.
Turning away, she gave a small hum of dissatisfaction, maybe disbelief and glanced towards him curiously, suspiciously. Then, her eyes darted away again, and she gazed at the lawn and the tall, bare trees through the glass patio doors.
"What?" He asked, the ghost of a smile on his lips. There was something in his eyes that made her shift under the weight.
"What?" She asked, not meeting his gaze, her back pressed against the island as she stared at the backyard.