shit happens more often than she lets on; the sudden urge to pack all of her stuff in that tiny luggage of hers, drag her ass down the lonely & dangerous streets of ny - just because she feels so ( or more likely, because she’s used to it ). brunette is the person love can think of when she’s in full panic mode, not that she would ever let her know. two am, she sneaks out of the apartment as quietly as possible, making her way to her cousin’s place. funny how she’s her family, funnier how she can still muster the word ‘family’ after all this shit. she knocks on the door - hell, she’s banging, not giving a single heck about who’s asleep and who’s not, especially marlowe. “don’t be an old bore, come on, open the door.”