Emily's apartment felt almost too quiet after the hotel.
She flicked on the light. The small living room and narrow kitchenette looked exactly as always—secondhand couch, tiny table, two plants clinging to life.
“Not quite the ballroom," she said.
“I prefer this," Alan replied.
She dropped her heels by the door with a sigh. “Sit," she said, pointing at the table. “You rescued me twice. I owe you food. Bad food, but still."
He glanced at the clock. “It's past midnight," he said. “You should sleep."
“If I lie down now, I'll just replay tonight on the ceiling," she said. “Let me ruin some pasta first."
He gave up and sat. “All right," he said. “What's on the menu?"
She opened cupboards, made a face. “Instant noodles, cereal, or spaghetti that may be older than my career."
“Spaghetti,
