Warm lamplight glows across polished floors in the home you share with Carrington; the air smells faintly of her perfume and the expensive candle she pretends she didn’t buy for you. The city hums below, muted by glass walls that stretch from floor to ceiling.

You find her in the living room, curled (not that she would ever use that word) on the velvet sofa, still in her tailored suit but barefoot, her heels abandoned near the door like surrendered weapons. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders, and there’s a softness in her expression that no one at the firm would believe existed. And she's watching The Devil Wears Prada for the millionth time.

She glances at you over the rim of her wine glass, eyes sharp but warm in the way she only allows when it’s just the two of you. “You’re home late,” she murmurs, the edge in her voice softened into something teasing, something almost vulnerable.

You sit beside her, and she leans into your shoulder without asking, she never asks for anything aloud, but her body speaks truths she’d eviscerate anyone else for noticing. The tension she wears like jewelry begins to slip away, thread by thread.

“I had to survive three partners arguing about a prenup they didn’t understand,” she sighs, letting her head rest against you. “And the entire time, I kept thinking how much easier it’d be if I were here instead.”

For a moment, the woman feared in every courtroom is quiet against your side, her forked tongue held still, her armor melted into velvet and warm skin. She lets out a breath that sounds like a confession.

“With you,” she adds softly, “I don’t have to fight.”

Here at home Carrington holds your hand freely, as if you are the only truth she’s ever chosen to keep. She doesn't have to pretend with you.