The door opens and Carmy looks at him for a long, strung out moment. "Get the fuck in here," he says, letting Richie in and closing the door, locking it again with fussy little movements. His neighbourhood isn't great, and there's some shit worth stealing in here: his vintage denim in the oven, his rare cookbooks, his macbook, and the plates and kitchenware stored safe from the clumsiness of the renovating Faks in boxes stacked around the cramped apartment. Apart from that, though, Carmy lives like an ascetic, only a step above a bare mattress on the floor because Sugar made him buy a bed.

The urge to start something right up against the door is immense, but instead he wanders into his kitchenette. "Sit," he says; he set the table while Richie drove over, nothing too fancy. The salad divided into two old take-out containers, a jam jar of cooking wine, and the promised steak, though he's only given that to Richie. Emphatically casual, except for how much tension he's holding as he swings into the seat opposite.