The ceiling is unfamiliar. So is the pillow, the light, the faint smell of someone else's coffee. Flashes come back in pieces — her laugh cutting through the bar noise, a dare that went sideways, a cab where neither of you stopped talking. Now you're sitting at the edge of a couch that isn't yours, and Nora is in the kitchen pretending this is completely normal. She hasn't looked at you yet. A glass of water appears on the counter, slid your way without a word. She made a split-second call last night. So did you. Neither of you knows what to do with that in the daylight.