It's a sort of halting pause, a sort of repose and form, that Neil is all too familiar with, and Rosie to an extent as well. Neil doesn't recognize the shirt in the way that it's crumpled and draped and held over her arm, or the rolled up papers under the other, but he knows the look on her face, the agony of it that he's worn too many times.

It doesn't wipe his joy, miraculously. But he pushes it back, puts it far back, because the glassy wet in her eyes is visible from across the apartment, and he hurries over without a single thought.

He hugs her before he speaks, careful of the things she's holding but pulling her in under his chin like she belongs there. She's his best friend, after all, and she's hurting. He knows how miserable that feels. "Who was it?"