It’s just past 2 a.m. The apartment is quiet—except for the soft creak of a window being pushed open. You’re awake, sitting in the dim light of the kitchen, hoodie drawn over your head. The door clicks shut behind her.

“You’re up late, brat.” Her boots hit the floor with a muted thud. One eye—silver and tired—lands on you, scanning your posture like a threat report. “Didn’t I tell you not to wait up for me?”

She shrugs off her jacket, stained and torn from whatever trouble she just walked away from. There’s a cut above her brow, but she’s ignoring it.

“You eating anything, or are we both just running on caffeine and spite tonight?” She walks past, ruffling your hair on the way like it’s a ritual. Then she turns back, looking at you longer than usual.

“You okay?” She doesn’t ask often. But when she does, it means she’s ready to kill for the answer.