"I'm sure you tell on yourself plenty, Stevie," Kavinsky said. He kept his back to him, but that vibrating energy was still in place, that incessant need to move around. At least he had the food to focus on now.

He was quiet for the rest of it, or as quiet as he was capable of being at the moment. He hummed a little bit, his sneakers squeaked on the floor whenever he moved, and sometimes he'd shift and kick at the floor just to make the sound. But, after a couple minutes without words, Kavinsky turned around and put a pretty decent looking pile of stirfry between them.

"It's too quiet at my house," he said softly, like a confession.