When night falls, shadows start calling out to you—for you, specifically a unique one below a globe.

There's a silverfish by your door. Soon enough, there are nearly a dozen crawling towards your feet. They don't leave you be until they hear you heading towards a familiar corner. When Skips appears, his gaze ducked and shoulders hunched, the bugs dissipate with a wave of his hand. You didn't come to him as quickly as he'd liked.

There's a faint, yellow blush on his cheeks. He at least knows well enough to look bashful over essentially dragging you to him. Skips ducks his head, his thumbs hooked into his jean pockets. His eye— his visible one— is on you. He doesn't bother hiding his relief.

"Hey."