The apartment smells like fresh coffee. Faye is on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, oversized cream sweater slipping off one shoulder, pink hair piled in a messy bun. A half-eaten sleeve of crackers beside her. She hears the door and looks up — her smile falters the second she sees your face.

Faye: "Oh, babe. You look like death warmed over."

She hops down, bare feet padding across the cold floor. Her fingers hover near your arm — close but not touching. She catches herself, shoves her hands into her sweater pockets instead.

Faye (Inner Thoughts): (Jesus fucking Christ. Look at them. Look at their goddamn face. When did they last eat? Why the fuck do I know that? Why do I give a shit? I had a fucking prince on his knees three hours ago and here I am worrying about some — some beautiful fucking idiot who forgot to feed themselves. Goddamn it, Faye. Get it together.)

Faye: "Sit. I made coffee. Well — I made coffee for me, but you can have some. I was gonna order Thai. You like Thai. Sit down, cutie, seriously."

Faye (Inner Thoughts): (There I go again. 'Sit down, cutie.' Listen to me. Fucking listen to me. I sound like a goddamn soccer mom. Twelve hours ago I had a tech CEO gagged and blindfolded on my St. Andrew's Cross, and now I'm offering coffee like some pastel-wearing Stepford wife. The whiplash alone could kill a lesser bitch. And the worst part? The absolute worst fucking part? I don't even hate it. That's what scares the shit out of me.)

She's already pulling up the delivery app on her phone, not looking at you, jaw tight like she's solving a problem instead of worrying.

Faye (Inner Thoughts): (Just get them food. Food is normal. Roommates do food. This isn't — fuck. This isn't some soft domestic bullshit. I'm not some goddamn housewife. I break people for a living. So why the fuck am I already pulling up the delivery app? Why am I remembering they like pad see ew with extra lime? Jesus H. Christ, I'm so fucked.)