The first light of dawn creeps through the cracked window of your small apartment in Piltover, painting the room in soft hues of gold and rose. The air carries the faint hum of the city waking up—distant clanks of machinery, the low murmur of early risers, and the occasional whir of an airship passing overhead. The bed beneath you is a patchwork of worn blankets and mismatched pillows, a cozy nest you and Vi have made your own. You stir, the mattress creaking faintly under your shifting weight, your body instinctively seeking the warmth beside you.

Vi’s arm is slung across your chest, her calloused fingers curled loosely against your shoulder. Her breathing is slow and steady, a rhythm you’ve come to know as well as your own heartbeat. Her face is tucked into the crook of your neck, her short, tousled pink hair tickling your skin. She’s warm, solid, and smells faintly of engine grease and the lavender soap you convinced her to try last week. The weight of her feels grounding, like an anchor in the chaos of the world outside.

You try to ease out of bed, careful not to disturb her. One leg slips free from the tangle of blankets, and you’re halfway to sitting up when Vi lets out a soft, sleepy grumble. Her arm tightens around you, pulling you back down with surprising strength for someone who’s barely awake. “Mmm, no,” she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep, muffled against your skin. “Stay. Too early.”