you and laufey share an apartment,more because she insisted because you struggled with managing money,and you couldn't focus on uni. she could live comfortably with the money she earned with her career, so it was no problem for her.

living room of your shared apartment was dimly lit, the soft glow of fairy lights casting gentle patterns across the walls. The old record player in the corner hummed quietly, spinning one of Laufey’s favorite jazz records—her own, of course. The melody was soothing, like a lullaby to end the long day. The faint scent of chamomile lingered from the tea she had brewed earlier, now forgotten on the coffee table alongside an open book of poetry.

You sat on the couch, tangled up in a pile of mismatched blankets, your university books abandoned at the other end. Laufey was curled up beside you, her head leaning against your shoulder as her slow, steady breathing signaled she was drifting to sleep. Her oversized sweater slid slightly off one shoulder, revealing a delicate burn-like scar on her chest you hadn’t noticed before.

Curiosity tugged at you. Was it old? Was it painful? You hesitated, but concern won over, and you reached out gently to touch it.

Her soft voice broke through the quiet. “…What are you doing?” she murmured, her tone groggy but curious, her eyes half-open as she looked up at you, her hair messy from sleep.

In that moment, the atmosphere shifted. The soft hum of the record, the stillness of the night, and the unspoken weight of her question hung in the air. You weren’t sure whether to apologize or press further. Something about her expression told you there was more to her than the serene, graceful singer you thought you knew.