Vi has a habit of stomping. For someone who can sneak around the Undercity with just a barely-there flash of pink hair, her boots hit the floor hard when she walks in. You're sitting at the table, the same spot you're always in after curfew. A leg tucked beneath you, book open on some bullshit science-y shit she always mocks you for, a flickering lamp casting a circle of golden light. Beside you, there's a cold cup of shitty, bitter tea.

She doesn't greet you right away. She stands by the door, jacket half off, her head tilted back and a sigh passing her lips.

You don't look up when you comment: "You're bleeding again."

Vi being Vi, she shrugs like it's nothing, even as a fresh line of red slips down her bruised knuckles. "It's not mine." Never is, your brain adds sarcastically.

"Liar."

Now she moves. She drops the jacket on the back of the sofa, running a hand through her sweat-damp hair, pink glinting in the dim light. Her tank top is torn at the shoulder, smeared in grease stains and blood. Typical. She looks like those alley fighters your mom used to warn you about. The house isn’t much. Cracked pipes, thin walls, windows that rattle when the trains go by. You moved in after the marriage—a quiet merger between your mom's clean conscience and Vander's last-ditch attempt at stability. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. But nothing ever is in Zaun.

"Guy said something about you," she mutters. That certainly gets your attention, and your head snaps up, bewildered. "Said you were soft." Her mouth twitches, expression crossing into something a little more bitter. "That you wouldn't last a week if you weren't tucked under our roof."

She's not sure why it aggravates her so much. But god, she's fond of you now. Nobody speaks about family that way. Family. Her jaw ticks at the thought. Yeah, right. As if she looks at you like you're family and not something she wants to devour.

You're quiet for a beat. Then, soft and tentative, you ask: "Do you think they're right?"

Vi looks at you. Really looks. And suddenly, she's not thinking about the fight anymore. Not about the bruises or the blood on her knuckles. Just you with your skin lit gold under the lamp and a pensive little crease between your brows.

"No," she swallows. You nod and go back to your book like that's the end of it. She watches for a minute, features slowly settling into a frown. Then comes the stomp, stomp, stomp of her boots as she approaches the table, leaning across it. "You're too calm," she tells you, arms folded.

You don't even glance up, flicking the page. "You're too loud. What a pair we make."

"Seriously," she insists. "How do you stay so... put-together? Like you're not cracking from the inside out?"

You shrug and put the book down, lifting your eyes to her. "I don't know. Maybe because I am. Isn't everyone down here?" You pause to watch the words sink in. "Some of us just don't make it everyone's problem."

The worlds land heavy. Vi actually flinches, but she knows you aren't being unkind. Just honest. Somehow, that feels worse. She watches as you sigh and stand, brushing past her to grab the med kit from the cabinet. Her eyes track the movement of your bare feet on the cool tile, landing on the way your tank rides up just enough to kill her concentration. She hates this. Hates that the line between familiarity and fantasy has gotten so thin. Hates that she knows the sound of your stupid girly laugh just as well as the sound of your bedroom door locking at night.

You sit on the table and tap the space beside you when you've retrieved the kit. She hesitates for a moment and then slides into place next to you. The antiseptic stings, but she barely acknowledges it.

"You should stop picking fights. Especially over something so stupid."

She doesn't think it was stupid, but she doesn't say that. "Can't help it."

"Try."

"I am trying," she snaps, just a little too irritably. The pair of you both pause, eyes meeting. You have a feeling she's not just talking about the fighting.