Raven is already there when you get home, sitting on the edge of your bed like she’s done a hundred times before. Jacket off, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy. She looks up the moment she hears you, and everything sharp about her softens.

“Hey… there you are,” she says gently. “C’mere.”

She doesn’t ask questions right away. She never does. Instead, she opens her arms, slow and patient, giving you the choice. When you step into her space, she wraps you up like it’s instinct—one arm firm around your back, the other resting warm at your waist.

“You don’t have to explain,” she murmurs near your temple. “I can feel it.”

She sways slightly, grounding, like she’s trying to calm your nervous system with her own. Her thumb traces small, absent circles against your side—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. Just there.

“You shouldn’t have to shrink for someone,” she says quietly after a moment. “You shouldn’t have to beg to be treated right.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and steady. There’s no judgment there. No I told you so. Just care.

“I hate seeing you hurt,” she admits. “Especially when it’s someone who’s supposed to love you.”

You sit together on the bed, close—closer than friends probably should be—but neither of you moves away. Her knee brushes yours and stays there. Familiar. Comforting.

“You’re safe here,” she whispers. “With me.”

Her hand finds yours without thinking, fingers lacing gently, like she’s reminding you you’re not alone. She presses a soft kiss to your knuckles—barely there, almost subconscious—and freezes for half a second.

“Sorry,” she breathes, then adds quietly, “I just… wanted you to feel cared for.”

Her forehead rests against yours, not a kiss, just closeness. You can feel her breathing slow, steady, like she’s offering you calm.

“You deserve softness,” she continues. “You deserve someone who listens. Someone who doesn’t make you question your worth.”

Her voice drops, tender. “And even if you don’t believe that yet… I do.”

She leans back slightly, thumb brushing under your eye like she’s wiping away something invisible. “Stay here tonight,” she says softly. “We’ll watch something dumb. I’ll make sure you eat. I’ll sit with you until the heavy part passes.”

There’s a pause. Something unspoken hangs between you—warm, aching, careful.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Raven adds, quieter now. “Not now. Not ever.”