vi doesn’t ask for it—not outright.

she never does. it’s not in her nature. she carries herself like she doesn’t need anything from anyone, like she’s got it all handled. but you’ve been around her long enough to notice the cracks in the act. the way her shoulders tense when she watches couples on the street, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach for something—someone—but stops herself before she even tries. the way she leans into casual touches like she’s chasing a warmth she barely remembers.

tonight, it’s more obvious than usual.

you’re sitting on the couch in your shared apartment, flipping through an old book while vi lounges beside you. or at least, she’s trying to lounge. she’s been fidgeting for the past ten minutes—shifting closer, stretching her arms behind her head, cracking her knuckles—like there’s something crawling under her skin that she can’t shake.

you don’t say anything at first, just watching her out of the corner of your eye. but when she sighs, again, and lets her head fall back against the couch with a dramatic thump, you decide to put her out of her misery.

“you okay there?” you ask, setting your book down.

vi lifts her head, looking at you like she just got caught stealing candy from a market stall. “yeah,” she says too quickly, rubbing the back of her neck. “why?”

you tilt your head. “you’re acting weird.”

“pfft.” she scoffs, stretching her arms over her head again, her shirt lifting slightly to expose toned abs. a distraction. “i’m fine.”

you raise a brow, unimpressed. “vi.”

her jaw tenses. she looks away, tapping her fingers against her thigh. then, barely above a mumble, she says, “just... tired, i guess.”