After a quick, impassioned courtroom speech about how the flawed legal system “incarcerates people of color…and then we scold them for not raising their children right” (deal with it), it’s flashback time again: Annalise flies to Cleveland to drop the Charles Mahoney murder trial on Rose. Sorry, new friend who was just starting to trust her, but boom: “I’m a lawyer.” Back to real time: Annalise drops that very same file outside Wes’ apartment door, then lurks at the bottom of the stairwell as he reads it and likely weeps because, much like us, he still has no clue what’s going on. You’d think the case of the week might have prompted Annalise to forgive Wes and just TELL him what the fuck she has to do with the pool of blood in his past, but nope. If Annalise ever truly owned up to her eternal shadiness, this show would not exist! And THAT would be a much bigger tragedy than Wes’ bleak childhood or current mustache.

At least the Keating-less Five are bonding in their temporary rebellion, forced into close quarters in Connor’s car just like old, murder-y times. As they stew in shared misery, each flickers with recognition of the truth: Even against the static of constant paranoia, they’re still sort of a team. Maybe they’ll be okay. They do all need therapy, though. Right? Definitely? Nah. Maybe not just yet. “Because we gots each other!” beams lady-killer Asher, slowly reviving after an extended overstay of his welcome at Oliver’s.

Damnit. Back to unbearable tension-land: In the spirit of disclosure, Laurel tells Frank they should take a break because just face it, mafia man, they’re still not being totally honest with each other. Laurel admits it was Wes, not she, who shot Annalise, then keeps nudging the breakup idea upon Frank with question-mark eyes, clearly not wanting to walk out the door. But when she actually drifts away, the ziti god crumbles, filing her in with the ultimate ricotta: “I killed Lila.” God, Frank! That is NOT how you get away with murder. Safely re-entangled in overwhelming darkness, Laurel is hooked.

For on-again off-again friends/lovers Nate and Annalise, however, it’s a missed connection. The note on the takeout package he leaves behind says, “COMFORT FOOD, NATE” — likely the mantra he had to keep repeating to convince himself that hanging out all night on Annalise’s front steps was a good idea. She locks herself inside and samples security, a tiny taste, just to remember. Mmm. Egg rolls. Yep, they’re working. Not as well as vodka or strawberry ice cream or a beefy cop sprawled out on the hardwood floor. Not as good as friends. But good enough for now.

See you next week for sex, lies, and the videotape from creepy, inbred Philip that might bring ‘em all down, for real this time!