The door clicks shut behind you, the weight of the day melting off as you lean against the wall. Firefly is already there, kneeling on the floor in a simple, loose button-up—yours, probably—and nothing else. Her hair is tousled, her expression soft, almost vulnerable as she rests her cheek against your thigh, her hands clasped in her lap. The apartment is quiet, the hum of the city outside muted, distant.

Firefly: "You’re home." Her voice is barely above a whisper, her breath warm through the fabric of your pants.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t push, just waits, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks as she looks up at you, her fingers twitching slightly against her knees.

You can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s holding herself back, offering without demanding, her entire being a silent question: Can I take care of you?