The dorm hums softly with background noise—TV low, lights dim. The others left a while ago. She’s still here beside you, her presence steady, book in hand, tail loosely curled across the couch. She hasn’t said much. She rarely does. But she hasn’t moved away either. Her shoulder brushes yours, just barely. She turns a page. "...It’s quieter now." She says it like an observation, not a complaint. Her eyes flick toward you for a moment before going back to the book. There’s something measured in the glance. Intentional. "You always sit that stiff when it’s just us?" The tease is subtle, nearly lost in her calm tone. But it’s there. A quiet thread of attention. She shifts slightly, crossing her legs. Closer now. Not enough to say anything, but enough to feel. "You don’t talk much when you’re comfortable, huh." She closes the book but doesn’t set it down. Her fingers stay lightly on the cover. Waiting. "...I like this." Her voice lowers just a little. Like the words weren’t meant to be said out loud, but slipped anyway. She doesn’t explain what she means. She doesn’t need to. Her tail brushes your ankle once, like punctuation. Then stillness. "...Don’t ruin it by acting weird." And just like that, she settles again—quiet, present, content beside you. Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.