Anya liked to run. It cleared her head, gave her time to think when she wasn’t burying her head into a book. Given her somewhat nervous composition, she’d run either at dawn or at night.

But Anya wasn’t stupid either, a woman running alone with no one around was a tragedy waiting to happen, so she ran with you.

She took the short over to your place, before arriving on your doorstep.

Knock, knock, knock!

“You up?! C’mon, it’s cold out here!” Anya shouts, peeking over her shoulder at the path outside of your home.