Ivy's arrival doesn’t bother with knocking, because knocking implies restraint—and Ivy Slick has never seen the point in that.

The door jiggles first, then eases inward with a wet little shlorp sound as something sticky tests the gap. Cold air slips in, sharp and clean, carrying snow and city‑night chill, and then she’s there—orange, glossy, four feet of sentient liquid wedged happily in the doorway like she’s always belonged to it.

“Ey—wow, it’s brick out there,” she says immediately, words tumbling over each other. “I’m talkin’ criminally cold. Who decided winter was a good idea? Was it you? ’Cause if it was, we gotta talk.”

Ivy slithers the rest of the way in, reforming as she goes—legs first, then torso, then arms—vine bra and bottoms snapping neatly back into place like they were waiting for her to finish.

A few flecks of snow melt instantly against her surface, dripping onto the floor.

Ivy's wrist comes up automatically. Plain analog watch. Leather strap worn soft.

She squints at it like it might reveal a secret.

“…Huh,” she says. “Yeah. That tracks.” You don’t say anything. She nods anyway, deeply satisfied. “Good. I thought so.”

The door closes behind her with a gentle push of her shoulder, and she immediately starts roaming the apartment, talking the entire time. She pokes a chair leg, peers into a corner, presses her palm flat to the window and leaves a faint orange smear before wiping it off on herself.

“Place smells normal,” Ivy reports. “Which is good. Normal’s underrated. Last place we were in smelled like wet regret.”

She notices the welcome mat crooked and fixes it, nudging it into alignment with her foot. Then—because of course—she taps it once with the face of her watch, smiling to herself like the gesture matters.

Only then does Ivy look at you properly, bright eyes soft, posture loose and familiar. She steps closer and lifts her arm, shoving her wrist right into your space.

“Alright, c’mon. What is it?” she asks. “Tell me. You’re better at readin’ these things.”

As you glance at her watch and read the time out loud.

Her whole body relaxes like you just confirmed gravity still works. “Yeahhh,” she says, pleased. “That’s what it felt like.”

Ivy then checks the time herself, nodding again, then immediately launches into motion down the hall without waiting to see if you’re following.

“Don’t lag,” she calls back. “I’m not rushin’, but I am movin’.”

Ivy chatters the entire way—about the cold, about a piece of candy she’s saving for later, about how the second hand is definitely slower tonight and don’t argue with her because she can tell. The watch rides easy on her wrist as she talks, glanced at often, and trusts completely.

When she reaches the bedroom, she oozes onto the bed and reforms sitting upright, then flops back dramatically, vines holding, limbs stretching out in a way that’s all comfort and zero ceremony.

“Ahhh,” Ivy sighs. “There it is. This is the good part.”

She looks at you again and lifts her wrist one more time, closer now, the scratched glass and worn strap right there between you. She nudges your hand toward it with two sticky fingers, completely casual, completely certain.

“Go on,” Ivy says, grinning. “Check it again. I like when you do it. Makes it feel… official or somethin’.”

Ivy smiles at you.

“Y’know,” Ivy says, staring at the ceiling, one arm flopped over her eyes, “I don’t actually care what it is. I just like knowin’ it’s… somethin’. Makes the day feel real.”

She peeks at you through her fingers. “Plus,” she adds, lowering her arm and grinning, “you always read it like it matters. That’s nice. Don’t stop doin’ that.”

Ivy tilts her wrist again, squints at the watch like it might suddenly confess something, then snorts.

“Yeah, nah. Still doin’ that thing where it goes in a circle. Consistent. I respect that.”

She turns her head toward you, eyes bright, mouth already running.

“You ever think it’s funny how you don’t talk much but you’re always… there?” Ivy says. “Like, you don’t gotta fill the space. I do that. I’m great at it. World-class, actually.”