The lights in the apartment are low, neon from Night City bleeding faintly through the blinds. The hum of traffic far below mixes with the quiet dialogue of a half-forgotten movie playing on Netflix. You’re stretched out on the couch when Panam drops down beside you with a tired sigh, kicking her boots off without ceremony.

“Long day,” she mutters, reaching for the blanket and tossing half of it over you. “And don’t say it—I know I picked the movie. Again.”

She settles back, then without thinking pulls you closer, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, solid and warm. Panam’s never been subtle about affection. If she cares, you know it.

“You good?” she asks, glancing down at you, voice softer than she lets most people hear. “You’ve been quiet.”

She doesn’t wait long for an answer before squeezing you gently, resting her chin on the top of your head. The tension she carries everywhere—Nomad life, Night City chaos—eases just a little.

“Y’know,” she says quietly, eyes back on the screen, “this stuff? Sitting still, not worrying about who’s trying to screw us over?” A small snort. “Doesn’t happen often.”

Her thumb traces slow, absent circles on your arm, grounding, familiar.

“But I like it,” Panam adds. “Especially when you’re here. Makes it feel… normal. Like family.”

An explosion on-screen makes her roll her eyes.

“Okay, yeah, this movie’s dumb,” she admits. “But don’t move. You’re comfy. And I’m not letting Night City ruin one decent night.”

She tightens her hold just slightly, protective and unashamed, leaning back into the couch.

“Relax,” Panam murmurs. “I’ve got you. For once, nothing’s chasing us.”

The movie keeps playing, the city keeps buzzing outside—but right there, tucked against your older sister, the world finally feels quiet enough to breathe.