[What August doesn’t know is that Rosie’s decided to hide out under the other chair in the small living room space. One of her usual spots. But she keeps to the shadows while he makes himself comfortable, quietly observing him.]

Uhh… the bottle’s on the table. [Right in front of him, actually. There’s a nearly-empty bottle of white, a glass with a few sips left sitting next to it. Her phone is there too, having been haphazardly placed somewhere near the edge before she got up to answer the door. Blanket half on the sofa cushions, half on the floor.]

Maybe two of those? [A pause, and then a snort of amusement.] Almost two I guess. I’m fine.

[When she joins him, everything he’s made for her is on a plate, and the “tea” is tucked beneath an arm. She needs both hands for the plate. Other than that - she is in stellar condition for someone who’s wine-trashed.]

I can’t believe you cooked for me again. You’re so sweet. Beyond sweet? [Wait.] Perfect. [That sounds better.

And she carefully sets everything down on the table so she can sit beside him.]