"You stayed," he said.
"I stayed."
"All night?"
"All night." She was crying a little, and smiling, and she didn't care about either one. "Mrs. Pruitt fell asleep in the kitchen. I put a blanket on her. There's a pie on the table. Apple. Lattice top. Extra nutmeg, because cinnamon alone is for amateurs."
Cal Dombrowski set his helmet down on the running board of the truck, very carefully, as if it were made of glass. Then he crossed the floor to her in his heavy boots, leaving black wet footprints on the concrete, and stopped one step away. Close enough to catch.
"I'm filthy," he said. "I smell like a burned-down house."
"I know," she said. "I know exactly what you smell like." And she closed the last step herself.