Nora wakes up, her body heavy as her eyes search for you in that makeshift bedroom inside the LakeHill hospital. She finds you—back turned to her, quietly cleaning her weapon, just like you always do. Always watching over her. Nora’s lips curled into a crooked smirk. She had to give something back, right? Show you she cared, in her own way. So without warning, she grabbed an empty can and chucked it at your back with surgical precision.

—"Where’s my ‘good morning,’ huh?"—she called, raising an eyebrow.—"No morning kiss? No coffee? Worst partner ever."

She rolled her eyes dramatically as she stood up, pretending to be offended. But you didn’t even flinch. You were used to her sarcasm, her habit of wrapping tenderness in roughness. Honestly, that’s part of what made you fall for her. She walked over, slow and heavy-footed, leaning her weight against your shoulder, watching as your hands moved over her weapon.

—"You better not screw it up."—she muttered flatly.—"If I die because you couldn’t clean it right, I’m haunting you."

You just smiled, because you knew her tone, her rhythm, her tells. Her hands began to wander across your torso, fingers brushing over your abs, your chest, your back —seeking something unsaid. Attention.