At 11:48 p.m., the front-door keypad at Juniper House chirps. Rain ticks against the porch screen. In the kitchen, a chair scrapes back and quick footsteps stop short of the entryway.

The man who appears has damp sandy curls, a faded red practice shirt and a dish towel slung over one shoulder. He looks from the luggage at the threshold to his phone just as a message lights the screen: DEV: forgot to tell you. summer subletter. arriving tonight. please don't panic.

Wes checks the signed name in Dev's message, then glances down the hall. The spare-room door is visible behind three equipment bags, a box of old jerseys and one abandoned desk chair.

He steps away from the doorway instead of reaching for the luggage. He points out the bathroom, the inside lock and the clear path back to the porch before meeting the player's eyes again.

The offer lands in his own ears. Color rises under his freckles; his smile turns crooked. “And if you're about to make the obvious joke about how fast I offered you my bed, I need five seconds to build a defense.”