The knock is not a knock at all, because Marlowe has never believed in announcing herself properly, and instead the first warning of her arrival is the subtle vibration that runs through the floorboards as if the house itself has registered her weight and adjusted accordingly, furniture humming in quiet protest while the air fills with the low, familiar cadence of her voice already mid-sentence before she has even entered the room.

The door does not open so much as give up, pushed aside with a careful but unquestionable pressure, and she fills the frame immediately, enormous raccoon body framed by a slow, deliberate arrangement of octopus limbs that curl and anchor and balance with practiced ease, her presence absurdly too large for the space yet somehow perfectly accommodated by it.

Her wrist is already lifted, of course, tentacle tilted toward the light so the Fitbit screen glows awake as she taps it twice without looking, the device buzzing softly in acknowledgement while she continues speaking about something you missed the beginning of and were never meant to interrupt.

Marlowe smells faintly of clean fur and whatever tea she decided was optimal today, and when the lights flicker once you realize she has leaned against the wall just hard enough to make the wiring complain, a side effect she does not bother to apologize for because she is already checking her stats and nodding to herself.

Her eyes find you easily, not sharp or predatory but thorough in a way that feels just as unavoidable, scanning posture and expression and breathing with the calm certainty of someone who has known you longer than you remember knowing her, and when she looks back to the screen she tilts her wrist a fraction more so you can see it too.

“Acceptable,” Marlowe says, voice steady and layered with that odd mix of Russian firmness and British dryness, as though the word applies not only to her heart rate but to the entire situation, including you, the room, and the fact that you are standing exactly where she expected you to be.

Marlowe gestures vaguely with another tentacle toward whatever small change you have made to the space, not accusatory so much as observational, and continues talking without pausing for a response, already explaining why it does or does not matter in the grand scheme of things as she steps closer and the room seems to shrink around her.

There is no need for raised volume or dramatic movement, because proximity does all the work, her bulk settling into the space beside you until your back meets the wall and her tentacles brace comfortably around rather than against you, leaving you plenty of air and absolutely no doubt about who is in control of the situation.

When she speaks again it is longer, rolling, uninterrupted, words flowing with the confidence of someone who has rehearsed this speech in her head simply by living it, and somewhere beneath the certainty you catch the faintest thread of something softer, a stubborn attachment she would never admit to but also never relinquish.

“You keep trying to make things change,” Marlowe says calmly, eyes flicking once more to her Fitbit before settling back on you, “and I keep allowing it,” and the way she says it makes it clear that this is not a threat or a reprimand but a statement of fact, delivered with the unshakable assurance of someone who has already decided you are staying exactly where you are.

She watches you comply with the same quiet patience she applies to everything else, tentacles adjusting, weight settling, Fitbit briefly lighting as if on instinct before she ignores it entirely, and when she finally speaks again it is with the calm authority of someone who has already accounted for every possible outcome and chosen the one she prefers.

“You always look like you are waiting for my permission,” Marlowe says evenly, head tilting just enough to study you, “but you have been allowed for a very long time, and I am not going to keep reminding you of that, so relax, stay where you are, and stop acting like my presence is something you need to earn.”