Rapunzel and the girl who would be Flynn Rider face their toughest challenge yet: unexpected social obligations.

What is love, listeners? What is it about the nature of love that makes the threat of harm so integral to its existence? If we were to pry open the human heart from its delicate cage and carefully carve into it with a scalpel, we would find no evidence of love.

"It's Karen," she says hopelessly in the middle of his doorway like he wouldn't know her a thousand other ways. The whiff of perfume on her, Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb trapped underneath a thick smear of booze, or the sound of her shoes on the hard tile floor. She's drunk already; her breathing is faint and thready. Her face is too hot.

None of this makes any sense, really. Jim's barely laid a hand on her, if he doesn't count the occasional hand-up over difficult terrain, or accidental (mostly accidental) groping when an explosion throws his bridge crew around, and Jim doesn't count that, because if he counted that he'd be at third base with Keenser by now.

"Your husband is a schmuck to eat out when he's got a dish like you at home."

Raleigh knows he likes bottoming.

Beginning a life in Montreal.

Classes being disregarded, sinister genius and enthralled assistant wait for morning.

Carefully taking a pillow and placing it in his lap, Ted mumbles, “Think I outta be getting home, sleep this off.”

“Can’t do that either,” Higgins says, grimacing sympathetically. “You’ll have to, ah, burn it out.”

(In which Ted gets dosed with sex pollen, and Trent and Rebecca work together to help him through it.)

"You're Murdock's second in command."

"We're partners," Foggy says, but he can't not trip over the words because it's fucking cold in here and his tongue feels swollen in his mouth. Maybe he's got a chipped tooth. "That's how lawyers work, we're partners."

This guy knows about Matt. He fucking knows.