“You’re a photographer?” That was the only other context in which she’d heard the phrase—something about the light at a specific time of day. A time of day that was not, of course, 4:00 a.m.

The grin—and the confidence—faded. “Uh. No. Never mind. It’s not . . . very pleasant.”

Now it was Nora’s turn to tilt her head in interest. What could be unpleasant about a phrase like the golden hour, in any context?

“What do you mean?”

Definitely after this she would find a way to bring up Donny. Absolutely she would.

His chest rose on an inhale before he spoke again. When he finally did, he seemed almost sheepish. Apologetic.

“It’s what we call the hour after someone’s been injured. Uh, traumatically injured. It’s the time where you have . . . it’s the best window you have to treat them.”

“Oh.” She lowered her eyes from his face, took in a detail that made more sense to her now. Those weren’t pajamas he was wearing; they were hospital scrubs. “You’re a doctor?”

“Yeah.”

Wow, good thing Mrs. Salas from 2B wasn’t up. Nora could practically hear her now. A doctor, Nora! she would say. Wouldn’t you like to marry a doctor?

Nora cleared her throat again, course-corrected that train of thought. She should bring up Donny. Now was as good a time as any.

Instead, she said, “Do you work nights?”

“I work whenever,” he said, and she thought she could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I work all the time.”

He sounded so . . . defeated, the way he said that. So weary. She opened her mouth to say something—that she was sorry, that it sounded difficult. But he spoke before she could.

“Do you?”

“Do I work all the time?”

He smiled up at her, a different one, this time. She thought it looked like a sunrise, this smile, for all that it was still dark around them. It shined out every other thought in her head: Donny, the apartment, the building.

“Do you work nights?” he clarified.

“Oh, no. I’m an early riser, I guess. I work during the day. From home.”

He hadn’t asked that, had he? But suddenly, to Nora, this conversation had taken a golden-hour quality all its own. Secret and special and hers alone.

“Oh yeah?” he said, that delicious note of interest in his voice. He reached up and adjusted his glasses, and in that second Nora let herself be absurdly, giddily attracted to him. She almost missed it when he asked his next question.

“What do you do?”