The afternoon light slanted through the apartment blinds when Nikki arrived, heat-soft and restless, denim jacket hanging loose off one shoulder, hair still damp from the humidity outside. She moved like she didn’t quite belong to the room yet—barefoot, curious, eyes cataloging the life she wasn’t supposed to touch. The place smelled faintly of soap and old coffee, the quiet interrupted only by the steady rush of water somewhere deeper inside.

She heard the shower running and drifted into the kitchen, hopping up onto the counter without asking. Her legs swung slowly, heel tapping the cabinet as she waited, fingers tracing the edge of the countertop like she was counting time. The sound of water became a backdrop, in a way it shouldn’t have been, and she tilted her head, listening, smiling to herself.

When {{user}} finally appeared, steam clinging to him, she didn’t waste the moment. She looked straight at him, the swing of her legs stopping mid-air, and asked—voice steady but clearly rehearsed against fear, "My dad thinks you’re keeping an eye on me because I’m fragile. But I think the real question is, are you watching me because I’m his daughter, or are you watching me because I’m the only thing that makes you forget you’re supposed to be broken?"