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‘And what does this truce entail?’ he asks like he’s requesting the recipe to vegemite on toast.

‘It entails civility until I’m able to find another place.’

That’s got his attention. His lip twitches and his eyes squint. ‘You’re moving.’

‘Yes.’ No, you are.

‘When?’

‘As soon as I can find a new place.’ As soon as I figure out how to send you back to hell. ‘There’ll be rules, obviously, like any…’ I click my fingers looking for the word. ‘Cohabitary situation.’

‘Weren’t you a journalist?’

I ignore the slight.

‘We’ll keep shared spaces amicable and tidy. No going into each other’s rooms. No setting off the sprinklers, no more gelatinous ghost goo on the handles, and no more locking me out and forcing me to crawl through the doggy flap.’

‘What can I do?’

‘You can not be an asshole.’

‘More stipulations.’ He shakes his head like it’s a damn shame. Like it’s a supernatural disaster. ‘And what about you? Do I get to make rules too or is this a dictatorship?’

I grind my teeth. ‘Go ahead, Walker. What are your rules for me?’ I tip my head and wait as his brow creases with consternation. The pad of his thumb presses into his lower lip as he makes his considerations. His eyes offer a slow perusal. I was feeling lazy this morning, my hair is barely brushed, there’s a stain on my button down, from the can of cold brew I just skulled (nasty stuff. Note to self: replace coffee machine next pay). However, his deepening frown and lingering stare tells me my most egregious fashion transgression is my black trousers – washed, but severely creased.

‘No visitors, no sound after 8pm, stop letting the food rot, and no more crawling through the dog flap.’

I know at least three of those are purely to bait me.

I take a breath before I wind myself up for combat. He takes advantage of the split second of silence and adds, ‘No creased attire.’

I squint. ‘No more locking me out. Stop fucking with the electricity. Visitors on the weekends. No noise after nine o’clock on weekdays, twelve on the weekends.’

‘No visitors. Ten,’ he haggles.

‘Yes visitors. Eleven,’ I counter.

‘Only women. Eight.’ Tryna lowball me?

‘Only women. Nine.’

‘Deal.’ Damnit.

‘Deal?’ I cringe, the lights will be out later at Orcwells than they will be here. Maybe I should move back.

‘Yes.’ He gives a decisive nod.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Fine?’

Repetition, it appears, is the straw to break the camel’s back. Walker finally lifts his eyes and pins me with a glare.

‘Are you daft or are you hard of hearing? Deal. Fine. Yes. You stay out of my way; I’ll stay out of yours until we get this whole mess resolved and you find somewhere else to fester and rot.’

Wow. That was relatively painless.