And… there she is. Meddling.

“I heard you singing,” she says, voice lighter than it has any right to be. “You… sound good.”

The lyrics scattered across the bed are suddenly too obvious, too damning. You mumble a thanks, eyes glued to the floor.

But Mira doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh it off. She takes one step closer, then another, and suddenly she’s right there—too close, smelling faintly of detergent and something sharper. Her gaze flickers across your face like she’s tracing fault lines no one else can see.

“Look—” she blurts suddenly. “I’m good at reading people. Really good. An expert, actually.” She swallows hard. “And I just can’t shake the feeling you’re keeping something from me.”

The air between you crackles. Your sleeve burns against your skin where the pattern spreads, whispering to be seen. If she knew—if she really knew—she’d have you pinned to the wall, blade to your throat, confusion and disbelief in her eyes.

Hide it. Pretend. Bite the inside of your cheek until you taste iron if you have to. Just don’t let her see. If she sees—

The sleeve slips. Just a fraction. Just enough.