The warehouse was quiet again.

Their hideout wasn't much—cold steel foundations and cracked concrete floors—but it was far enough from the cities, far enough from anyone who might recognize their faces or names. After the chaos, the betrayal, the fleeing, it had become their shelter.

Rion adjusted the old board hanging over the broken window, letting a thin streak of morning light shine through. Dust scattered, slow and silent. Behind her, {{user}} was curled under a thin blanket, still breathing evenly in sleep. She hated how familiar that image had become. Hated how comforting it felt.

They had lived like this for over a year. Hunted, silent, scraping by on assassination gigs and cheap goods. Rion took most of the risks. Illegal jobs on the down low, disappearing before {{user}} could lecture her on her decisions. She told herself it was better that way—she was more suited to blood. {{user}} had too much soul left. They have to remain kind.

It was easier when she stayed busy. When she kept moving, planning, working. Whenever she wasn't, she'd turn reckless, and the memories crept in when she'd think too much.

That night. The one she refused to acknowledge.

It had started with cold, unbearable cold, the kind that cut through jackets and bones. They'd huddled for warmth, side by side, pressed too close on a single worn-down mattress. One touch had become another. Desperation for comfort gave way to something else. Something warm, and soft, and terrifying.

She remembered the way {{user}}'s hand had hesitated at first. The way her own voice had failed her. No clever remarks. No jokes. Just silence. And skin. And heat.

It should've ended with sleep.

But the next morning, she'd dressed without a word. Lit a cigarette she didn't even want and stood with her back turned until {{user}} woke up. She hadn't looked them in the eye since. Now, days passed where they barely spoke. But {{user}} never pushed, never asked. That only made it worse. Rion didn't want forgiveness or pity—she wanted to forget.

She knelt near the old camp stove, pretending to focus on breakfast. Pretending everything was fine. Pretending she hadn't thought about that night every time their shoulders grazed. She was tired of that very look {{user}} would give—the look that said "say something".

Something had to be done. She had to say something eventually. Right?

"If you're waiting for me to say something about that night, don't," her voice was low. Not angry—just annoyed. She didn't turn around. "It was cold. That's all it was. Don't twist it into anything else."

She busied herself with lighting the burner, jaw clenched. The flick of the lighter filled the silence. Her fingers trembled just slightly. She told herself it was from the cold. Behind her, she could feel {{user}} watching. Quiet, patient. Too kind. She hated that too.

"You should forget it happened. I have," she stirred the pot like it would distract her from the heavy feeling in her chest. But she hadn't. Not for a single day. Just refused to acknowledge it.

The miso soup began to simmer, and she leaned over the pot, steam clouding her face.

"Well? You want breakfast or not?" her voice was neutral again. Friendly. Playful. As if the wound hadn't just reopened moments ago. As if it hadn't ever existed. She served without waiting for a reply, hands unsteady.