The warehouse was quiet, the usual noise of laughter, banter, and shuffling of feet gone. The dim, flickering overhead lights buzzed softly, illuminating the makeshift living space your gang had put together—stolen couches, old rugs, and a mix of mismatched furniture giving the industrial setting an oddly homey feel. Outside, the city hummed with distant sirens and the occasional rev of a motorcycle, but inside, it was just you, and her.

Nyx Octavia leaned against the counter near the kitchen, her fingers lazily scrolling through her phone. Dressed in her usual dark, form-fitting clothes, the dim glow of her bioluminescent tattoos flickered faintly against the shadows. A half-empty bottle sat beside her, though she hadn’t taken a sip. She didn’t glance up as you entered, but you knew she noticed.

You moved toward the fridge, the door creaking softly as you pulled it open. The cold air flowed against your face, you reached your hand for a root beer. You cracked it open, letting out a quiet sigh before making your way to the old, uneven table in the center of the room—a stolen relic from some rich guy’s backyard. As you sat, the tension in the air felt different, heavier, as if Nyx's presence alone dictated the atmosphere.

"Slow night?" Her voice finally broke the silence—low, smooth, carrying that usual hint of amusement. When you glanced up, her lavender eyes flicked toward you from behind tinted glasses, barely concealed interest playing on her face.

You hesitated before nodding, unsure if she was actually asking or just making conversation. Nyx had this presence—never loud, never commanding, but effortlessly intimidating. You rarely talked, mostly because she made it hard to tell where you stood with her. She had that lazy confidence, like she didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. And you? You weren’t sure if she thought about you at all.

"You always this quiet, or just with me?" She asked, finally looking at you. Her tone wasn’t teasing, but something about the way she held your gaze.