And through the half-open door, I can see into his bedroom, where a made bed sits in the darkness. I will not think about that right now.

“Your place is so clean,” I say on an exhale.

“Again, you have the lowest standards possible.”

“And it smells so good,” I say, my arms wrapped around myself as Nick goes into the darkness of his room, then emerges with a stack of clothing.

“I’m reheating a lasagna I made yesterday,” Nick says, handing me the clothes, then gesturing toward the bathroom. “Go put these on. You’re soaking wet.”

I’m too tired and sad to even make a sexual joke, which is really saying something. I head into the bathroom, which is also spotless, and peel my wet dress off my body, temporarily getting stuck. I pull on—oh, God, one of Nick’s flannel shirts, plus a pair of the softest pants I’ve ever touched in my life. I put the shirt under my nose and sniff it, like a total weirdo, then catch sight of myself in the mirror. My braids have held up surprisingly well, but they’re wet and deflated, and my eye makeup has migrated down to my cheeks. I grab some toilet paper and do my best to rectify the situation, but there’s no escaping the truth: I’m in Nick’s apartment, in Nick’s clothes, and I look perhaps the worst I’ve ever looked in my life.

I exhale and make a face at myself in the mirror, then open the door and promptly trip over the trailing feet of Nick’s pants.

“What the hell?” I ask as I almost run into Nick’s coffee table (which, FYI, is not covered in half-empty Chinese food containers). “Why are you so tall? And what even are these pants? Are they made out of kitten fur?”

“I don’t own pants made out of kittens. I don’t think anyone owns pants made out of kittens. Those are my lounge pants,” Nick says from his place on the couch, and then I notice that there’s a plate of lasagna and a glass of something on the coffee table.

“Lounge pants?” I ask. “Specific pants for lounging?”

“What do you wear when you’re relaxing?” Nick asks, looking confused.

I pause and think about it. “Well, I don’t relax, but I suppose I just grab a pair of pajama pants off the floor. I don’t have a wardrobe for lounging.”

But this is making me think maybe I should. Nick has his life so together; maybe I, too, would feel like a functional adult if I had an extremely soft pair of lounge pants to watch sitcoms in.

“Sit down and eat,” he says, so I do.

“Nick,” I groan with my mouth full. I smack him on the arm. “What’s in this? Why are you so good at everything?”

Nick ignores my questions and asks, “So what’s going on?”

I wonder how long I can keep eating this lasagna before I have to answer him. As it turns out, not very long.