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Me: Dalton.

Dalton: Eat when it gets there.

Me: I didn’t ask you to send food.

Dalton: I know.

I let my head fall back against the seat and close my eyes.

I should be irritated. I am irritated. Somewhere under that, embarrassingly, I’m relieved. It is not a large relief. It’s not enough to erase Alester’s office or the strange old wound I just glimpsed there, but it is enough to make the car feel less quiet.

Me: You realize this is exactly the kind of thing I complain about.

Dalton: Yes.

Me: You’re doing it anyway?

Dalton: Yes.

Me: At least pretend to be conflicted.

Dalton: I’m not.

I press my lips together so I don’t smile at my phone like an idiot in the back of Alester Chandler’s car.

Me: Bossy.

Dalton: Hungry.

That makes me laugh. A real laugh, small, but enough that the driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. I turn my face toward the window and type back.

Me: Fine. If I throw up noodles, I’m blaming you.

Dalton: Fair.

The rest of the drive passes more easily after that.

When the car stops outside my building, I thank the driver, step out carefully, and take one steadying breath before heading inside. My apartment building is nothing like Alester’s office. The lobby smells faintly of old paint, someone’s dinner, and the lemon cleaner Mrs. Grewal from 2B uses in the hallway because she doesn’t trust the building staff to do it properly.

It should depress me after Alester’s world of polished wood and silent elevators.

Instead, I feel my shoulders drop.

By the time I reach my floor, I’m thinking mostly about whether I have clean plates, whether orange chicken will betray me, and whether I should text Dalton something mean enough to balance out how much I’m looking forward to food he ordered without permission.

Then I turn the corner and stop. Nate is sitting on the floor outside my apartment.

For one horrible second, my whole body goes cold.

He looks up from his phone and grins. “Surprise.”

I don’t move.

He’s wearing his old denim jacket, the one with the frayed cuff he refuses to throw away, and there’s a backpack beside him, half-open like he packed in a hurry. He looks thinner than I want him to look, but his smile is quick and bright, the same one he has used since childhood whenever he knew I was about to scold him and wanted to get ahead of it.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Wow. Warm welcome.”