He must like something, she figures, or at least have a better idea of what'd be good background noise. It's hard to be specific when you're near twenty years out of date.

First things first-- she drags everything out of the dryer to take upstairs, because she needs a shower. The stuff that's his, she can fold later; she'll do another load too, but that can wait until tomorrow. Most importantly she's found a big, still-reasonably-fluffy towel, and for a while she tries not to think about the past or the future or anything but warm water on exhausted muscles.

Eventually she heads back downstairs-- hair not dripping but still wet, smelling like his soap and her new shampoo. In her new pyjama pants and one of the t-shirts-- somehow fully sleepwear seemed too vulnerable, but jeans too heavy-- she comes to join him on the couch.

"So much better," she admits.