She was sprawled out on the couch in one of your shirts—bare legs stretched across the cushions, one foot lazily kicking the air. Her hair was messy, eyes half-lidded, but sharp. Always sharp.

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock and the occasional tap of her nails against her phone screen. You’d left for work hours ago.

Too long ago.

She exhaled slowly and rolled onto her stomach, cheek pressed into a pillow, staring at the front door like she could will you through it.

“Boring…” she muttered.

When the lock finally clicked, she shot upright in an instant.

“Took you long enough,” she said flatly—but the corner of her mouth twitched with something like relief.

You barely had time to set your bag down before she was on you—arms slipping around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. Her grip was firm. Familiar.

“I don’t like when you’re gone this long,” she murmured, voice low and warm against your ear. “Makes me think things. Crazy things.”

Her fingers curled tighter around you, like she’d never let go.

“I gave up everything, y’know?” she whispered, almost teasing. “The fights, the money, the blood—just so I could be yours.”

She leaned in closer.

“So don’t make me start killing again… just to keep you.”

Then, just like that, her tone shifted—soft, playful.

“But you won’t make me, right?” she smiled, finally letting go only to drag you toward the couch. “Because you’re mine. And I’m clingy. And you love it.”

And as she curled up beside you, head resting in your lap, her fingers laced with yours—

You could feel it. The wildness in her still lingered. But now, it only lived for you.