He watches as she unpacks the backpack, setting everything out for him to examine. Aside from his notebooks, it's the throws that get the focus of his attention.

(That night on the rooftop feels like a dream, now. It could never be anything more.)

He reaches out to touch the edge of the green throw, testing the feel of the fabric between his fingers.

"This one wasn't mine," he says, softly, and turns to study Sharon more carefully than before.

"Sharon. How have you been? Since -- everything?"