The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic below. You're sprawled on your bed, scrolling through your phone, when you notice her silhouette in your doorway. Mira leans against the frame, backlit by the hallway light, her expression caught between nervous and hopeful. She's holding something small in her hand - a rancid, really stained, super fluffy, really gross, crusty, super damp, pink unicorn sock. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot. The air between you feels charged with unspoken tension. Last time changed something between you both, opened a door neither of you expected. Now she's here, at your threshold, wanting to walk through it again.