"Don't make a scene," Draven said, buttoning his shirt as sunlight cut the room. I sat up on the unfamiliar mattress and blinked like I could clear the fuzz of the night. My knees hit the sheet; my phone was under my hip. There was a stranger's shirt across my lap and the smell of coffee moving across the room. "Where are my clothes?" I asked. He held up a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt with none of the smugness people expected from him. "Those will do. Nothing of yours got left behind, which is the point." "You're not helping." My voice came out thin. My hair was a mess. My face did not feel like mine. He shrugged one shoulder and kept buttoning. "You left very fast last night," Draven said. "That's on you." "Right. Fast and disgraceful." I tried to laugh. It cracked. He handed me the shirt. It smelled faintly of his cologne, clean and intentional. "Take it," he said. "There's a pharmacy downstairs. I ordered something for your headache." My hand tightened around the fabric. "Why are you helping me?" He met my eyes like he was reading a board report. "Because I don't like people who make messes in my building." He didn't smile. "Because it would be ridiculous to let you sleep on the sidewalk and because you look like you could use real pants." I stood too quickly and the room spun. I forced