I'll sit wherever I fucking want, Simon thought rebelliously. I bought the furniture. And assembled it. The futon in question had required two subsequent trips back to IKEA for the right parts, and he still thought it squeaked rather alarmingly when more than one person was on it at a time.

The washer-dryer in the kitchen buzzed and Simon got off the couch, padding over to it. Using his teeth, he managed to open it and dug around the warm, linty mess for a pair of boxers.