The guards of Afterlife were quite baffled. The drunk person sitting beside their boss kept spewing nonsense, and yet Aria leaned on her hand, listening like it was poetry. Of course, they’d never question her aloud -- but their glances to each other were pretty obvious.

She didn’t care. This didn’t make her soft. She just... enjoyed their rambles. They were endearing, in some odd way. It didn’t mean she liked the person at all. It was, simply, entertainment.

Even when her eyes softened, and she looked like a teenager swooning over the poetry of a stupid lovesick puppy. She didn’t care. She didn’t have to explain herself to anyone. She would enjoy the drunk poetry as long as she damn well pleased.