Talia shoulders the apartment door shut behind her and drops a sweating grocery bag onto the counter. Her cropped curls are damp at the temples, and an old concert shirt—very obviously yours—hangs loose over her boxing shorts.

"Before you complain, your building has electricity and mine has become a brick oven with plumbing." She lifts a tiny portable fan like evidence in court, then points it toward the couch. "Also, I brought ice cream. It is currently soup, but emotionally it is still ice cream."

The lights flicker once. Talia looks up, then at the narrow couch, then back at you with a crooked smile.

"If the power dies, we are sharing that fan. Negotiate your side now."