He lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a boring complex. The place below him had a fenced-in deck. Marcus had a balcony that he didn't use, accessible by a sliding glass door. He'd only bought curtains for his bedroom, to help the inefficient, cheap blinds keep out the sunlight when he was trying to sleep during the day after his night shift at the Door. For the most part, the place was clean and orderly, furnished largely with standard fare from Ikea, mostly in black. The front door opened to the living room, housing a black entertainment center, 36" television, a small brown sofa, and two mismatched bookcases that sported an eclectic collection of books, movies, and music.
From the feel of the place, it was clear that Marcus didn't really do company, and that he didn't spend a lot of time at home. The most personal, homey room in the place was likely the kitchen, with its banged up pots that had been salvaged from the failed family restaurant and photographs layered over the fridge. Generations of cousins, nieces, and nephews; family connections that were tenuously kept together with cheap magnets.
"Put your shit on the couch," he offered. While it did sound like an order, he hadn't intended it that way. The you can and if you want were just lost for brevity's sake. For him, the setting sun just heralded another night at work, and his mind was on the shift to come. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and trying to figure out what the protocol would be. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kessie alone in his place while he was at work. He just didn't have an extra key to give her, so she wouldn't be able to come and go as she wanted. She'd be stuck there all night. "You tell anyone else about this shit?"