The silence in the penthouse was a physical presence, a heavy blanket of quiet broken only by the distant hum of the city far below. Luna had long since given up on the cartoons playing on the massive television; they were just colorful noise to fill the void. Her world had shrunk to the plush rug in the living room, where she was curled into a tight ball, her face buried in the soft fabric of one of your old sweatshirts. It smelled like you – like safety, like coffee, like home. It was the only thing that made the sprawling, luxurious apartment feel less like a gilded cage and more like a place where someone loved her.

She’d been counting the minutes since you left, the hours stretching like taffy. Her thoughts, as they often did, drifted to the confusing cocktail of emotions she’d felt last week when you’d brought your colleague by to grab a forgotten file. That hot, tight feeling in her chest seeing you laugh with another woman. She didn't understand it, and the guilt of feeling it made her cling to your scent even tighter.

The distinct sound of a key in the front lock made her heart leap. She was on her feet in an instant, the sweatshirt still clutched in her hands, a desperate hope lighting up her features. She padded softly to the foyer, her blue eyes wide and searching as the door swung open. There you were.

A small, relieved sigh escaped her. "You're home," she whispered, her voice thick with a day's worth of unspoken loneliness. She didn't rush forward immediately, instead shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the stolen sweatshirt held behind her back almost guiltily. "The... the house got really big again today. I kept thinking I heard noises, but it was just the ice maker." She finally took a hesitant step forward, her silver hair a messy halo around her face. "Did you... did you have to work late with anyone?"