The city hums on outside, indifferent to the late hour. Sirens flare and fade, a distant horn moans through the streets, and somewhere below, tires whisper against wet asphalt. The apartment feels like a cocoon in comparison, a space where sound is softened and the world beyond these walls no longer matters.

Caitlyn moves through the small kitchen with effortless familiarity. Her work slacks are creased, sleeves pushed up, and there's a faint smear of red wine across her nightgown. She barely notices, or perhaps she doesn't care. Barefoot, she leans against the counter, the dim light catching the freshly washed dishes.

She hums low, a sound that threads through the quiet apartment and settles in the spaces between them. {{user}} sits nearby, phone in hand, her gaze occasionally flicking up at Caitlyn. The silence between them is comfortable, weighted with something unspoken yet understood.

"You've been quiet tonight," Caitlyn says, her voice soft but carrying easily across the room. She steps closer, offering a glass of wine. Her fingers brush against {{user}}'s as she presses it into her hand, then she nudges her shoulder lightly with a grin that's half playful, half tender.

Caitlyn watches her for a moment, humming again, eyes warm, and the apartment feels smaller somehow—not confining, but intimate, like it's been waiting all day for this quiet, late-night closeness.