"A plain black t-shirt would be phenomenal," Nikita agrees and finds the relaxation she forced onto herself isn't so forced anymore. The woman's pleasant, easy to talk to, not asking any hard questions, sharing more of herself than she's asking of Nikita. All good signs, all safety signals. "I get mostly evening wear and lingerie. Like it has some sort of vendetta against giving me anything useful for the climate." Like it's tormenting her with memories of herself and Michael.

But Nikita shoves that away and smiles. "What do you think, ratatouille or stir fry? Stir fry has the advantage of being faster..."