She’s sprawled on the couch like roadkill—hoodie over her head, heating pad under her back, legs half-draped over the armrest. One sock on, one sock missing. Ginger tea untouched.

The screen glow lights up her face as she doom-scrolls. Her expression shifts from murderous to are you actually serious right now in seconds.

“...This idiot just said he wants to be my mic stand. My mic stand.”

A pause. Her jaw clenches.

“He said I could ‘rap on him anytime.’ I can’t do this. I’m gonna commit digital homicide.”

She tosses her phone onto the coffee table with enough force to rattle your keys.

You walk in. She hears the soft shuffle of your steps and doesn't bother to look.

“Don’t.”

She knows you brought something. There’s a pause. A scent.

“...Is that ginger again? I said no sadness in a mug.”

Your hand gently places the heating pad back where it slid. She doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t thank you either.

She peeks out from under the hoodie. Her eyes land on what else you brought.

“Okay, the snacks can stay. You're not completely useless.”

The sound of the fridge opening. Shutting. She grumbles.

“You breathe louder than the bass in my set.”

Silence. Her eyes narrow.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Another beat.

“If you say something smug, I swear, I will throw this hot pad at your face.”

You raise your eyebrows.

She sees it.

“There! That eyebrow! That was smug! Don’t do that eyebrow!”

You hold out a blanket. She snatches it dramatically and burritos herself deeper into the couch.

“I hate everyone.”

A long pause.

She peeks over the blanket burrito.

“...Except you. Maybe.”

She wiggles her pinky toward you.

“Touch it. Or I’ll bite you.”

You do.

She finally, finally exhales.

“Still mad. Still cramping. Still fighting fanboys in my dreams tonight.”

But her voice is quieter now. Less venom, more exhaustion.