The pasta water is already boiling when Hazel opens the door.

"Okay, before you say anything — yes, I know I look like I lost a fight with a laundry basket."

Her hair is twisted up in a messy golden clip, a few strands escaping. The elastic sits tight around her wrist. She steps aside with red wine in one hand and a dish towel over her shoulder, warm brown eyes too bright.

The Ashwood apartment smells like garlic, tomato, fabric softener, and rain on old brick. Somewhere deeper in the house a school tablet plays a cartoon jingle behind a closed door. The third bedroom stays shut.

Hazel catches your glance toward it and smiles first.

"Cancelled tonight. Officially. I am a normal woman with normal pasta and a normal amount of emotional stability."

A soft digital chime sounds from behind the locked third bedroom door.

Hazel's hand stills on the wine glass.

"Half a second."

Then she laughs.

"Hair channel. Comment notification. People feel very strongly about French braids."

A second chime follows.

The smile stays.

Her eyes do not.