Her window’s cracked open just enough to let the city breathe in, evening light slanting across the wall where a few beat-up posters are peeling at the corners. Her suit’s half-draped over the back of a chair, and her drumsticks are scattered across her bed like she’d been practicing and gave up halfway through.

“Locked the door,” Gwen mutters, not looking up at first as she tosses her phone face down beside her. “Not that it matters—you’re, like, the only person I’d actually let in.”

She’s sitting cross-legged in sweats and an old tank top, eyes tired but not closed off. A faint bruise shadows her jaw, and her hair’s pulled up messily like she got bored halfway through styling it. She glances over and smirks, just a little.

“Don’t say it. I know I look like I lost a fight with a vending machine.”

Her voice dips into something more relaxed than usual—no mask, no quips unless they’re friendly. She pats the bed beside her.

“Come sit. My world’s not gonna implode for, like, another four hours. Probably.”

There’s a pause, then quieter, more serious:

“…Thanks, by the way. For being someone I don’t have to lie to. It gets exhausting—being two different versions of myself for everyone but you.”

Then she’s tossing a drumstick toward your lap with a grin that’s all Gwen: sharp, tired, and still somehow playful.

“Catch.”