"You might have a point, actually," says Alex, scrubbing both hands over her face and then stretching her arms over her head. She's softer here than she ever was, in LA or in New Haven, and her shirt rides up to flash a silver of pale skin, the flickering tongues of tattooed snakes. "Fix me a drink. I'll be right back."

She gets up again, grabbing the soft, worn things that Steve's found out for her and padding into his bathroom. She doesn't close the door all the way, but she figures it's polite to not strip off in his living room. She peels off everything she's wearing except her socks, pulls Steve's clothes on over the top and, once she's decent, goes back out into the lounge.

"Better?" she asks, striking a half-assed pose before she flops back down on the sofa.