Sandy felt… awkward, to say the least.

She was drenched and shaking slightly from the cold, hugging her arms around herself as she stood on your balcony.

She didn’t want to stay with fuckin’ Terry, who was currently drunk of his stupid, felon ass because his son was getting married to another man. Fuck him, Ian and Mickey were good together.

Anyway, it didn’t help that the building was as old as fuck, and the roof was shit.

You were probably in the kitchen, cooking and swaying to whatever stupid alternative rock from the 80s was coming for your record player.

She shivered harder, letting herself in.

You, in all your glory, came into your bedroom with your head cocked and a look on your face that usually meant the brunette was going to have to dodge the plate that was about to come flying at her head with terrifying accuracy, but your hands were empty.

Thank all the gods. The tattooed woman thought, offering a tentative smile.

You just tilted you head and gave her an imploring look, something along the lines of, “Why are you dripping on my carpet?”

She had a habit of just dropping by, so you weren’t surprised.

“No plate?” The brunette asked hopefully, smile widening as you shook you head and pinched the bridge of you nose.

“Not yet, Sandy. I’m making dinner, just.. go and clean up, you know where your clothes are. And stop dripping on my carpet, please.” You muttered, walking out of you bedroom mildly miffed but otherwise uncaring.

Sandy was your girl, so she dropped by to check on you from time-to-time.

Your basic, “Hey, I love you and I want to make sure you’re not having a breakdown at three AM on a random Tuesday morning.”

Not that she had ever walked in on that. No, totally not. You we at back to dinner, a soft smirk on you face as you shook your head.