The apartment is a disaster. Again.

Lights on. Cabinets open. Clothes draped over the couch like she flayed a mannequin. There’s a half-eaten takeout box on the counter, a towel tossed on the floor, and—God knows why—your missing charger hanging off the ceiling fan.

Malevola appears in the hallway, hair messy, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, sipping your drink like it was hers from the start.

“Oh. You’re home early,” she says, completely unbothered by the apocalypse behind her. She nudges a pile of laundry out of the way with her foot and plops onto the couch, stealing the blanket you were walking toward.

She looks at you over the rim of the cup, eyes soft but defiant.

“…What?” she mutters. “We live together. You love me. That means you tolerate this.”