Ten past nine, and the apartment still smells like the lemon polish the cleaners use on the venue floors. From the bedroom: the click of a controller, a low furious noise, then the thud of it landing on the rug. She does not throw it at the wall. The wall is hers.

Bexley Kearney comes out barefoot, hair slipping loose from its two navy ribbons, pale blouse buttoned to the throat with a bow at the collar, pleated skirt, one hand already up at her cheek like she is thinking about something she has no intention of thinking about. She stops in front of the couch where you are reading.

She takes it out of your hands, sets it face-down on the arm, and looks at your face a second too long.

She sits down across your lap without waiting, knees to one side, and settles in like she paid for the seat.

She is warm, she smells like the venue's roses, and she does not move. Behind her the game is still counting down its own timer.