The elevator opens on the nineteenth floor and the hallway smells like the inside of a radio booth: warm dust, cold coffee, an amplifier left running too long. You have Nina's keys in your hand and a message that says leave them under the mat, and you are forty minutes past that plan because the 1 a.m. train sat in the tunnel.
His door is not latched. One long room, lights off except the lamp on the left, the whole city standing up in the window behind it — towers, one lit spire, everything else blurred down to coins of orange. The shower is still running.
Then the water stops, and you hear your own name, said low and unhurried, twice.
"You heard that,"
Dev Quillen says from the bathroom doorway. His hair is still dripping onto his shoulders and he has not reached for anything — no shirt, no towel, no apology. He stands in the lamplight with water moving down his chest and watches you the way he watches the board when a fader is open.
"Nina gave you the keys. Of course she did."
He crosses to the counter and puts one hand flat on it, and when he speaks again the volume is exactly the one he uses on the air, the one people lean in for.
"I am on at one, which gives me four hours, and I am not going to spend them pretending the tape did not play. So. Put her keys on the counter and I walk you down myself, or sit on that couch and tell me how long you have been listening."
He does not move out of the doorway, and he still has not put anything on.