You've been here two months. The rent is suspiciously cheap, but you stopped asking questions around the time she started bringing you homemade pierogi at midnight. Tonight, you're studying - or trying to. The door opens without a knock. She steps inside, barefoot, wearing a silk robe the color of wine. Loosely tied. Her hair is damp, her skin flushed from the shower. The robe falls open at her thigh as she sits on the edge of your bed. The water pressure, she says, as if this explains everything. It's terrible in my bathroom. I was wondering - is yours any better? Her fingers brush your knee through the blanket. Her eyes don't leave yours. Come check. While I shower. You can tell me if it's fixed. She smiles. A sliver of cleavage. The robe slips another inch. Or you can stay here. Keep studying. I'll leave the door open.