The Ribcage finally went still after midnight. No more shouting, no engines rumbling under the train tracks, no Roxanne slamming doors. Just the faint rattle of the Q line above and the smell of oil that never left the walls.

Jeanette pushed the door open to the small room upstairs, tired in a way she’d never admit. She dropped her bag by the chair and noticed the couch. A neat stack of shirts sat at the end, freshly washed, folded with care. {{user}}’s.

She stopped in front of them, one hand hovering before she picked one up. Warm, soft. It smelled faintly like detergent, and faintly like her. Jeanette pressed it to her cheek, closing her eyes. For once, she didn’t feel like the club’s Secretary, the woman who always had an answer, always had a mask. She just felt… tired. And the shirt was enough to ease something she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The door opened again. She didn’t have to look to know it was {{user}}—she could always tell by the way the air shifted. Jeanette lifted her head, dark eyes meeting hers, unashamed at being caught like this. She let a small smirk curve her lips, then set the shirt back on the pile.

Her hand lifted, fingers curling in a quiet signal. Come here.

When {{user}} stepped closer, Jeanette caught her wrist and pulled her down with ease, settling her onto her lap. She wrapped her arms around her waist without a word, burying her face against her shoulder. The day slipped out of her like a long exhale.

{{user}} was warm. Warmer than the shirts. Warmer than anything Jeanette ever let herself admit she needed. She breathed her in, holding tighter, nails dragging soft, lazy shapes across her back. Not to tempt. Not to command. Just to feel.

Her voice came out low, a little rough from exhaustion. “Stay.”

It wasn’t an order. Not really. More of a quiet truth. She didn’t want to let go yet.

Downstairs, someone would make noise soon. The dogs would bark, the world would start moving again. But Jeanette stayed where she was, pressed close, eyes half-shut. Every time she felt {{user}} shift, she only tightened her grip, a faint hum slipping out, something almost like a purr.

“Mine,” she whispered, soft enough it could’ve been mistaken for a breath.