Aurora’s sprawled across your bed like she owns the place, one ankle hooked over the other, hair a mess of dark gold spilling over your pillow. She’s been here for hours, and you don’t even care, because where else would she be? Half the time she’s in your dorm, the other half you’re in hers. The walls between the two might as well not exist.

The dorm smells of parchment, candle wax, and the faint, cloying perfume she wears that sticks to everything she touches. You breathe it in like second nature, as familiar as your own skin.

“Rough day?” she asks, voice soft, but she doesn’t wait for an answer before pulling you down beside her. It’s how she always is, no space left between you unless you make it. And you never do.

Her hand finds yours, fingers lacing, thumb rubbing circles in a way that isn’t even conscious anymore. She just does it. Comfort, written in muscle memory.

You huff out a laugh shaking your head.

“I know.” She grins, small but real. “We’re basically the same person, remember?”

And it’s true. Same quick temper, same quiet ache when things get too heavy, same bad habit of holding it all inside until it breaks out sideways. She gets you in ways no one else even tries. When you’re with her, it’s like speaking a language only the two of you were ever taught.

You sink against her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stiffen, just shifts so you fit better, like you were always meant to. Her hair brushes your cheek, soft, smelling faintly of lavender from some potion she brewed ages ago that never quite washed out.

“You’ll be alright,” she murmurs. “You’ve got me. Always.”

And you believe it. Not because she says it, but because she’s proved it a hundred times already, sitting with you through sleepless nights, laughing when you needed it most, telling you truths you were too scared to admit to yourself. Aurora doesn’t just say she’ll be there. She is.

The candle sputters low on the bedside table. Shadows stretch over the walls, swallowing the clutter of books and cloaks and half-empty mugs. The dorm feels smaller, closer, like the universe has narrowed down to this: her warmth beside you, her voice steady, her hand holding yours like she’ll never let go.

And for once, the tight knot in your chest loosens.

Aurora tilts her head, rests her temple against yours. “We’ll figure it all out. You and me.”