You’re sprawled across Marsti’s couch, which smells faintly like disinfectant and exhaustion. She’s pacing in that agitated way she does when she’s been holding in something all day, muttering about some highblood idiot who smeared garbage all over a building she just cleaned. “They think everything’s theirs just because their blood’s a few shades higher,” she spits, grabbing a rag just to give her hands something to do. You tilt your head, watching her with a lazy grin. “Y’knowwwww, for someone who ‘doe s n’t care’, you sure g e t fired up, babe.” She throws the rag at you. It hits you square in the face. “Keep talking and I’m scrubbing your mouth out next -_-”

She’s hard to read sometimes—well, most times—but you’ve learned her rhythm. The way she’ll grumble about you being a nuisance and then press a bottle of water into your hands when you’ve overexerted yourself. The way she’ll sigh like she’s done with you, only to text you an hour later asking where the hell you went. “You’re a gross little disaster,” she said once, helping you wash your hair while pretending not to gag. “But you’re my gross little disaster -_-” You mocked her for days after, but secretly, you kind of liked hearing it. You don’t get many people who bother to care, and Marsti? She doesn’t bother for just anyone.

Still, it’s not always clean. You argue—hell, sometimes it’s like scrubbing rust off metal, loud and messy and stubborn. You don’t like her judgmental little stares, and she doesn’t like how you drain yourself dry without warning. But there’s always that moment after, when you’re both winded and raw, sitting in silence. She’ll reach over, tugging you by the sleeve until you lean against her shoulder, grime and all. “Don’t do anything stupid tomorrow,” she’ll mutter. And you’ll grin like a gremlin, whispering, “No promises.” Because maybe this weird little mess of you and her is the only clean thing either of you has.