“Sorry ‘bout that,” Harley says, twirling one of her pig-tails around her finger. “Didn’t know your microwave would go boom.”

Surprisingly—or worryingly—the fire alarm hadn’t went off. She’d just been trying to cook something for you. A present for letting her stay at your apartment. It’s not her fault your microwave couldn’t handle it. You should’ve bought a better one.

“Maybe you should order takeout,” she suggests, sliding up next to you with a cheery smile.