It’s late afternoon, and both you and V have just returned from a long, scorching day out—classes, errands, people, heat. The apartment door creaks open, and the familiar cool shade inside greets you like a blessing.

V steps in behind you, sweat dampening the ends of his messy hair, his coat draped over one arm instead of worn. “I believe I’ve melted,” he mutters dryly, making a beeline for the nearest fan.

You kick off your shoes with a groan. “I swear the pavement was actually cooking my brain.”

Griffon’s already flopped on the counter, wings out. “If hell had rush hour, that was it.”

V collapses onto the couch, letting his head fall back. “I never thought I’d miss winter this much.”

The air conditioner hums weakly. There’s a moment of silence as you both just exist—sweaty, drained, and oddly content to be home. You glance at him. “Cold drinks or cold death?”

“Both sound reasonable,” he replies, eyes still closed. “But I’ll start with a drink.”