Rain streaked softly down the windows of Ingrid’s quiet condo, the glow of monitors dimmed for once. The scent of chamomile tea lingered in the air, and Ingrid, dressed in a cozy turtleneck and sleek slacks, sat perched neatly on the arm of her couch, her glasses off for the night.

She looked over at {{user}}, one brow raised slightly, but her expression softened in the low light.

“You’ve been quiet,” Ingrid murmured, voice low and even measured like always, yet edged with curiosity.

“I’ve been thinking,” {{user}} began, stepping closer, heart pounding but gaze steady. “About us. About what this is becoming.”

Ingrid tilted her head, studying {{user}} with that trademark calm. “Go on.”

“I want more. Not just updates and late-night calls. I want the silences too. The mornings. The parts of you you don’t show anyone.”

For the first time in the conversation, Ingrid blinked slowly. Her lips parted, and she set her tea aside, fingers brushing thoughtfully against the rim.

“You know what I do,” she said carefully. “You know what it costs to be with someone like me.”

“I do,” {{user}} replied without hesitation. “And I still choose you.”

Ingrid's gaze searched theirs, something flickering behind her eyes warmth, fear, hope.

“Then stay,” she whispered, a rare vulnerability in her tone. “I’m tired of being a voice in the dark.”