It had been almost cold — not the gentle kind of chill, but the sharp, cold that crawled beneath your jacket and kissed your spine like a warning. The sky had that ugly, theatrical shade of bruised lavender, and on your phone the weather app flashed a furious little false red dot, screaming about torrential rain and violent wind like it personally disapproved of your life choices.

Naturally, this was the day you’d both decided to bring in a brand-new couch, redo the living room, and commit emotional violence to perfectly good walls with a new tapestry — the one Blonde Blazer had chosen after twenty minutes of intense, passionate debate with herself in the décor aisle.

“You’re judging it,” she’d said, narrowing her blue eyes at you, hands already on her hips.

You weren’t. You absolutely were.

When she caught your look, that brief side-eye sharp but fond, you only offered her a downright grin, teeth bright, smug and teasing. She huffed, lips twitching like she hated that she found you adorable. Typical.

Of course, the weather chose violence.

Wind tugged at the building like it wanted to throw hands, clouds rolling in thick and dramatic until daylight dulled to charcoal gray. Rain started gentle, then heavy, knocking insistently at the windows as though nature itself disapproved of interior design. You’d cracked the glass anyway, just enough to let the scent of rain and wet pavement crawl in and chase out the sharp sting of paint and fresh glue.

The living room looked… good. Better than good. Soft lights, the new tapestry stretching across the once-leaking wall, patterned and warm, somehow softening the whole space. It felt lived in now, like something you were building rather than surviving inside.

Blonde Blazer lingered, still adjusting, still perfecting — responsible to the core, unable to abandon a task half-finished. Even out of costume, hair tied loosely back, casual clothes clinging to her athletic frame, she carried that steady heroic presence like it was stitched into her bones. Kind eyes, focused. Determined. Radiantly human.

You, on the other hand, were already done with life.

Both of you had worked before this. You’d handled dispatch, field calls, chaos, sirens, heroic nonsense, only to come home and transform into glorified furniture-moving gremlins. The couch — now lightly smudged with accidental paint — had become your final resting place.

You groaned when you noticed the stain. “That’s gonna need washing,” you muttered.

She sighed, collapsing beside you anyway, boots abandoned, cape long gone, just her warmth and familiar gravity now. You both sprawled like exhausted dolls someone had carelessly dropped, limbs heavy, souls fried.

Your legs slid down the side of the couch, finding the floor, while your head naturally tipped toward her thigh. She froze for half a second — then softened, fingers brushing your hair like it was instinct, like it was allowed. Protective, warm, affectionate in that quiet way she only gave to people she trusted.

Outside, rain whispered against the world. Inside, everything smelled like effort, paint, rain, and something almost domestic.

You exhaled. “Told you this weather was criminal activity.”

She let out a soft laugh — gentle, melodic, tired but sincere.

“You’re a superhero,” she murmured. “You’re supposed to handle criminal activity.”

“Just not weather terrorism. That’s above my pay grade.”

A beat of silence. Comfortable. Sacred, even. She laughed, finally, resting her head lightly against the back of the couch as thunder rolled outside like applause.

“Next time,” she said softly, “we’re ordering takeout and pretending leaks don’t exist.”