You’re smaller than Jinx. Not by much, two, maybe three years, but enough that she notices without ever saying it out loud.

You don’t hear well. The world reaches you in pieces: vibrations through the floor, muffled sounds, sharp noises that come too late or not at all. You’ve learned to watch hands, faces, shoulders. You’ve learned to read people instead of listening to them.

Jinx figured that out faster than anyone else. She learned which side to stand on so you could see her mouth. She learned to tap twice on the table to get your attention instead of shouting. She learned to exaggerate her expressions when she wanted you to laugh.

She pretends it’s annoying.

“Tch. You miss all the good stuff,” she complains, waving her hands dramatically. Then she repeats herself anyway.. slower, clearer.

When explosions go off nearby, you feel them before you hear them. Jinx is always already there, one hand gripping your wrist, pulling you behind cover.

“Hey,” she says, eyes locked on you, searching your face. “You good?”

You nod. Only then does she breathe again. She lets you hang around her workshop, even when you get in the way. You sit on the floor with spare parts, handing her tools when she points. Sometimes you mess it up. Sometimes you hand her the wrong thing. But she never yells.

“Eh, close enough,” she mutters, ruffling your hair like she didn’t just almost smile.

When the voices get bad, you notice before anyone else. Her hands start shaking. Her pacing gets faster. You tug on her sleeve until she looks at you.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

She crouches down in front of you, forehead pressing briefly to yours — grounding, steady.

“…Stay,” she murmurs. It’s not a request. So you do.