[And at that, Gepard laughs. It's a startled little laugh, and he blinks after that noise escapes his lips because oh. Oh, he laughed. Figaro made him laugh. It's the first time in months that he laughed, and, of all the people, it was a mysterious man who drank blood (a criminal, someone he should be arresting) who surprised it out of him. He shouldn't be laughing.

But he is.]

Wouldn't it be easier for me to just give you a copy of my key? [Doesn't that make more sense?] Normally, I wouldn't even consider it. I barely even know you. I don't know your name. But you're- well. Here? It's not as if locks show any signs of stopping you. I might as well make it official.

[He takes a moment to take a drink of his coffee. (He shouldn't be happy about this. But something about how absurd everything is makes Gepard happy. It's absurd. Everything that's happening is absurd. It makes it easier to surrender to it and say things that Gepard-the-soldier shouldn't say, but Gepard-the-man can.)] But something tells me you'd prefer the challenge of a locked window to a front door and a key. Promise me that if you do decide to spend the night, you'll do your best to warn me ahead of time so I can get extra blankets for the couch.