The late sun painted the building gold as Luca and the agent stepped out through the glass doors.
The stairwell was cooler than the apartment had been, the scent of fresh paint fading into faint echoes of detergent and someone's dinner.
Luca followed the agent down, their footsteps out of rhythm, like they belonged to different songs.
"You're really picky, you know that?" the agent said, pocketing the keys with a weary sigh. "Most students would've signed the first one and called it a day."
Luca laughed under his breath, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "I'm not picky, I just—" He lifted his hand, searching for words. "I know what he'd like. It has to fit both of us."
The agent gave him a look halfway between disbelief and amusement. "Picky," he repeated, as if stamping the word on Luca's forehead.
Luca opened his mouth to argue again—then stopped. His gaze snagged on something moving at the far edge of the street.
His words broke off.
