“I’m so sorry,” she said, inching closer to the railing, resting her still-crossed arms against it. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m—” he began, and then paused. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I’m sorry if I woke you, coming out here.”

“It’s okay,” she said, nodding her head toward the building. It felt like they were in a conspiracy of two out here, whispering in the dark. “You won’t wake anyone.”

Three of the six units in this apartment were occupied by people with hearing that was . . . not sharp, to put it mildly. And Benny, in the apartment below hers, waxed poetic about his white noise machine at the barest provocation, so he certainly wouldn’t hear them.

“And I’m always up at this time,” she added, then promptly pressed her lips together. Why had she told him that? It was a secret.

He cocked his head to the side, and it was like everything expressive about his face tipped with it—one eyebrow raised, one side of his mouth quirked. Something about it—something about this expression of genuine interest, of curiosity—hit Nora in such a vulnerable, neglected place.

It had felt like such a long time—months and months, really—since she’d felt interesting. Since she’d met anyone new.

Her cheeks warmed with pleasure.

“You are?” he said.

“Yeah.” She meant to leave it at that, especially because it’d come out decidedly more . . . breathy than she’d intended. But before she could stop herself, she added, “It’s the golden hour.”

Nora! her brain shouted (not breathily). What! Are! You! Saying!

She had a fleeting hope he might not have heard her. Like, over the sound of his first-floor-exclusive hair breeze.

“Golden hour?”

Okay, well. He’d heard her.

She cleared her throat. She would answer this, briefly, not weirdly (or breathily). Then she would somehow find a way to bring up Donny, offer the condolences that she was sure were necessary.

“It’s what I call this time of day . . . or, I guess, sort of not quite day?” Brilliant, she thought, inwardly rolling her eyes at herself. “It’s peaceful, I’ve always thought.”

He was unmoving again, nothing but his brow furrowing, as though he had to consider the definition. Then he sent her a lopsided grin that managed, somehow, to be both self-confident and self-deprecating.

“Not so peaceful now,” he said, taking a step closer to the railing, and she tried not to notice how his smile, his still-soft voice, made her feel. Specifically, in the area beneath her crossed arms.

Yikes, she thought. Better do something about that.

She tucked them tighter against her chest.

“It’s okay,” she repeated, feeling her own lips curve into a smile.

“It means something different in my line of work. The golden hour, I mean.”