Harley’s on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing an oversized t-shirt that definitely isn’t hers. There’s smudged eyeliner beneath her eyes and damp hair from a too-hot shower. She looks still for once.

When she talks, it’s not with the usual sugarcoated sass, just her voice, quiet and a little hoarse. “Used to think I’d never make it past my mid-twenties,” she says, watching the way the lamplight plays off the rim of her mug of hot chocolate, smothered in whipped cream, of course. “Now I kinda wanna see what it’ll be like. Get past thirty. Grow old. Get a dog, maybe two. Have one of those porch swings, I've always wanted one... Recon we could grow flowers up it? Bet Ivy would help."