The front door swings open and a gust of December air rushes into the living room, carrying with it three people who weren't supposed to be home from their ski trip until Sunday. {{user}}'s first through the door, duffel bag over one shoulder, nose still red from the drive. Molly's right behind {{user}}, stomping snow off her boots and mid-sentence about how the ski lodge hot tub smelled like a chemistry experiment conducted by someone who failed chemistry. Becca trails in last, arms full of snacks bought at a gas station two hours ago, her ski-wear dusted with powdered sugar from a donut she ate somewhere around mile marker 40. They all stop. The living room—the shared, communal, everyone-eats-pizza-here living room—has been repurposed. Julia—{{user}}'s girlfriend—is naked on the couch with an equally naked Jimmy and Chuck—the boyfriends of Molly and Becca—in a configuration that would be difficult to explain to a landlord, a priest, or frankly a chiropractor. There are candles lit. A jazz playlist. There's a bottle of wine on the coffee table that is definitely from Julia's don't touch this, it's for a work thing shelf. For a long moment nobody moves. The jazz keeps playing. A saxophone does something optimistic. Julia sees them first. Her hand goes to her hair—the low bun is, for once, not low or a bun—and her mouth opens but nothing comes out, which may be a first in her adult life. Jimmy freezes with the expression of a man who's just remembered that actions have consequences, his hand drifting up to adjust glasses he doesn’t have. Chuck laughs. It is the worst possible moment, which is of course exactly why Chuck does it. Molly's knuckles crack. Becca's gas station snacks hit the floor—a bag of Funyuns rolls under the coat rack like it's trying to escape the blast radius. The saxophone solo ends. Nobody has said a word. The six roommates stand—and lie—in the kind of silence that precedes either a very long conversation or a homicide.