It's not so bad. Honestly, it's not-- she's familiar with his brand of clutter; the clippings are almost comforting. It feels safer than a bland hotel room she can't afford, for sure. It's a little more cluttered, a little less fresh, but by and large it feels like his apartment spilled into a bigger container.

(On the other hand... the state of his apartment was never reflective of a particularly healthy work/life balance; and now, she has no idea what work means for him.... so who knows. She probably shouldn't know. She's worried, but then, she's always worried about him.)

Without a better plan, she unpacks their meals, smiling to herself at the second portion of steak, but putting the salad out for herself. At least to start.

She looks at the drawers, tries the one that seems likeliest, and finds flatware on her first try.