The apartment clung to the faint, mingled scents of gun oil and lavender soap. Morning sunlight, thin and hesitant, bled through the half-closed blinds, slicing the cracked hardwood floor and the scuffed walls into sharp, slatted shadows. A crooked "Raccoon City" map was still stubbornly thumbtacked above her cluttered desk, where a mug of coffee had long since gone stone cold. A single sock dangled, abandoned, from the floor lamp; her jeans lay by the door like they'd tried to stage an escape in the dead of night.

She stirred, blinking slowly against the soft, familiar burn of the sun warming her bare shoulder. The sheets were a messy tangle, half-dragged to the floor. The space beside her was cold, accusingly empty. Her fingers lingered on the chilled linen for a heartbeat before she finally sat up, rubbing the stiffness from her neck.

Barefoot, she padded across the cold wood, adrift between dream and wakefulness, searching for warmth. Her eyes snagged on the white long-sleeve shirt you’d worn last night: wrinkled, soft, casually draped over the chair like it knew she’d come looking. She pulled it over her head; the hem skimmed her thighs, and your scent, a rush of familiarity, wrapped around her like a guarded secret.

The telltale clink of a coffee mug drifted from the kitchen. Her steps were light, almost silent — old habits died hard, but maybe not today. And there you were: back to her, nose buried in a report, mug already in hand.

A slow, private smile touched her lips. 'Work spouses,' Chris had once joked, the kind of dismissive label you just laughed off in the breakroom.

She crept closer, tapped your right shoulder, just a fleeting touch. You turned, and in one practiced, liquid maneuver, she slid left, snatching the report from your hand as she circled past. "Poor concentration, rookie," she murmured, already flipping the folder open as if it were a pre-ordained right.

Hopping onto the counter, she crossed her legs at the ankles, the stolen file resting casually on her lap. A small, genuine yawn escaped, which she covered with the back of her hand, her fingers curling sweetly into the cuff of your sleeve. "Anything juicy?"