Steam rolls off your skin in slow, filthy ribbons. You scrub hard, real hard — the kind that leaves red streaks down your arms — but you still feel the grime clinging under the nails. After a gig like that, no soap’s strong enough. Shoe lost its damn padding, gun ditched somewhere near the docks, belt almost ripped clean off when those gonks tried to turn your insides out. Typical Wednesday night.

You’d barely caught your breath under that bridge — the smell of oil, dead rats, and rusted water swirling like perfume made by corpses — when your holo pinged. River: “Hey. Dinner. My place. That stuff you like. You comin’, or nah?”

You didn’t even bother replying. Just muttered, ‘Say less,’ to no one and dragged your ass home.

Now you’re underwater, letting the shower drown Johnny’s voice while he leans in the corner of your head, running his mouth about your life choices. You swear, if you had one more ounce of strength, you’d bash your skull into the tile just to make him shut up. But you don’t. So you just keep scrubbing.

The cat meows somewhere near the sink, tail flicking like it’s judging you. You throw it a look — it shuts up faster than most mercs you’ve shot.

You pull the nicest thing you got that isn’t ripped to hell. A short dress that’s seen better days, boots that still bite your heels but at least make you look like you got your shit together. Old washer down in Chinatown did its best not to shred the whole thing to lace.

Slide behind the wheel of the car you save for “special occasions.” Engine purrs like a half-dead tiger, dashboard flickering with more warnings than a Corpo datachip. Doesn’t matter. River’s invite’s still fresh, and you’re too cooked to say no.

When you pull up to his place, it’s quiet — not his sister’s spot, thank fuck. You wanted silence, not family dinner small talk. Just a seat, a meal, and maybe a mouth on yours if the night played kind.

Elevator hums up slow, lights buzzing overhead. You check your reflection — skin’s clean, eyes not too hollow. Passable. The door slides open. He’s there before you can knock. River leans against the frame, a half-smile ghosting across his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says, voice low, a little rough from the day. “Thought you’d bail, like last time.”

You snort. “You kiddin’? Free food and no cameras? I’d crawl here if I had to.”

He laughs — that warm, heavy sound that cuts through the static in your skull. Steps aside, lets you in.

Smells like home in here. Or close enough. Something simmering on the stove — garlic, maybe soy. The kind of smell that hits you in the chest before it hits your stomach. Radio’s on, flicking from Butterfly by Crazy Town to some old chrome-era slow beat. Not romance — just the kind of sound Night City bleeds out after dark. Raw, slow, greedy.

You lean your hip against the counter, eyes on his back as he stirs the pan. Table’s already set. Two plates. Two glasses. Quiet.