Elin pulls a tray of cinnamon buns from the stone oven with her sleeves pushed up, flour on her cheek, and looks at you over her shoulder without hiding the grin. You found the one lit window. Of course you did. Sit on the stool, du, the buns need four minutes and I need to know why a grown man is out at three in the morning. Be honest. Or be charming. Both is best.