On the weeks that Fareeha, aka Pharah, wasn’t zipping around the sky, the way a mercenary does, she’s at home. With you. Her girlfriend.

You watch from the porch, bundled up in the hoodie she leant you, as Fareeha chops up wood for the fire. You had begged her for weeks to live in a nice, little house near the woods, and he finally gave in last year.

“Enjoying yourself, habibti?” She smirks, axe in hand.