A/N: Did I really just steal Friends' episode title format? Why yes, yes I did. 

Irene’s feet are throbbing by the time she makes it to her apartment door. She regrets not changing into her flats after work, especially seeing as the elevator in her apartment complex decided to itself of all days.

The weather had hit an all-time high today, as if mother nature wanted to torture them. The literal fiery depths of hell could never compare to her having to leg it up fifteen flights of stairs.

Maybe she should sue her complex. This must fall under some sort of dodgy unkempt maintenance, or just filed under inhumane treatment.

But she makes it, with sweat pooling under her pits and gliding down her temple. Attractive, she knows.

Her sigh of euphoria of making it home turns into a deep sigh of utter tiredness when instead of a dark and empty apartment, she's welcomed with a high cackle drifting from her brightly lit living room.

An annoying laughter that she could only peg to be that of Joy's.

“Don't you have an apartment of your own to live at,” she sluggishly throws out as she passes the girl snacking on her couch, laughing at something that's meant to be humorous from the tv.

“I do, but yours has food. And where food is so am I.”

Irene could only sigh once more. Grabbing a chilled bottle of water from her fridge, she uncaps and chugs it down as she makes her way to the living room.

“Scoot,” she slaps at Joy's legs, demanding the younger woman to make room for her.

They sit there for a while. Joy satisfyingly entertained by the show she's watching and offering Irene the bag of chips, and Irene blanking out, mindlessly munching on whatever she grabs.

Joy lives about a ten-minute walk from her apartment. She had given the younger woman a spare key, for emergencies. She should have known that it would be abused. Sometimes she wonders if she should demand rent money from her, because she sure as hell occupies her apartment more than her own. That or ask for some sort of chip in for groceries, seeing as more than half of Irene’s food ends up in her stomach one way or another.

But she'd never do it. Because whether she'd like to admit it, or have an inkling that Joy herself knows, Irene actually enjoys the company. Sure, she can be annoying more times than not, but it's better than coming home to nothing and waking up to silence. But she'll keep this to herself. No benefit in giving Joy more ammo than she already has.

“Y'know,” Joy begins, shaking Irene from her stupor.

When her friend trails off with no follow up, Irene has to nudge her to pull her back to the conversation she started.

“Apparently you have a new neighbour.”

Random. How Joy knows more than her of what goes around in her complex amazes her sometimes. The perks of being an extroverted people person. Or really, the results of having the nose of a bloodhound keen for any whiff of gossip.

“And you know this how?” She takes the bait.

“Mrs. Riley said so. Moved in this afternoon.”

Pulling teeth, that's what it felt like talking to Joy most times. Being fed tiny nibbles of a bigger story or being tricked into thinking it was a story worth listening to, to begin with, that was the story of Irene’s life with Joy.

“And this interests me how?

One for dramatics, Joy drags the speed of the storytelling by popping not one, not two, but four more chips into her trap before saying, “she's blonde.”

And she's done. Done with the story. Done with Joy. And what should have been decided half an hour ago, done for night.

“I'm going to bed. Turn the lights off when you're done. Don't forget to lock up, because you've forgotten enough times to have had me killed.”

She's barely off the couch before Joy slides her legs back over the cushions. “Night mum,” she sings, eyes entirely engrossed on the tv.

“I'm not your mum,” Irene mumbles as she rounds the couch.

“You feed me like one.”

She closes her bedroom door with a roll of her eyes, “Like I have a choice.”

Irene rolls into bed after washing up. She's tucked in and absolutely tuckered out. As sleep finds its way into Irene’s tired body, the door across her apartment opens. Blonde her flitters through the air as the occupant locks their door and strolls off down the staircase and into the night.

A sight Irene has yet to know she'll be staring at for months to come