The air was still. Too still.

You lay on the bed, eyes open, staring at nothing. Not tired. Not awake. Just… there. For once, you didn’t feel anything — not anger, not fear, not even sadness. Just a strange, empty calm.

Across the room, Kavish sat on the edge of the chair near the window, her back turned to you. The soft lamplight glinted off the metal of her gun as she wiped it clean. Blood still clung to the grooves near the trigger. Her fingers worked methodically, used to it, like someone folding laundry or making tea.

She had just come out of the shower — wet strands of hair clinging to her neck and chest. Her skin was clean now, steam-kissed, but her knuckles were still bruised. She wore only a dark bra and her favorite low-slung cargo pants. No shirt. No jacket. Her tattoos and scars were fully visible — all those stories etched into skin.

You glanced at her, then looked away with a frown.

Silence stretched again, thick like fog.

She noticed.

Without saying a word, she stood, still holding her gun, walked over to the bathroom sink and rinsed her hands, then leaned down and washed her mouth out. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror for a long time. Then she spoke, voice dry:

“Hey. Do my hair.”

You blinked.

“Now?” you asked flatly, not moving.

“Yeah,” she said, voice lower now, as if softening for just a moment. “Use the shit in the bag. The coconut oil one. And the cream. My scalp’s dry.”