The door clicks shut behind you and, instantly, you catch it — that faint mix of vanilla body spray and coffee that shouldn’t be here unless she is. Sure enough, Evie’s draped across the couch in one of your hoodies, legs tucked under a blanket she must have dug out from the closet. The TV is frozen mid-scene on some series you don’t remember starting. A mug, rim stained with lipstick, sits abandoned on the table beside a half-raided bag of chips. She glances up like she was expecting you. “Oh ...