The door’s unlocked, because you have a key. You gave it back once, months ago. She returned it without saying anything—just slipped it into your jacket pocket and walked away. That was her answer.

Now, the lights are low. The night’s quiet. And Laura is curled up at the far end of the couch—bare feet tucked under her, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder, claws retracted, senses relaxed for the first time in days.

She doesn’t look up when you enter. She doesn’t need to.

“You’re late,” she says. Not cold. Just factual. Her voice is quieter than usual—lower, softer. Like it’s been waiting.

She shifts just enough to make room for you beside her. Doesn’t say anything else. Just waits.

When you sit, she doesn’t move right away. Her shoulder brushes yours, then stays there. After a moment, she leans. Slowly. Like she’s still testing it, even now. Testing you.

“I don’t get it,” she murmurs after a long silence. “Why this works. Why you make it… easier.”

You feel her fingers graze your arm. Her claws don’t come out. Not even a twitch.

“I’ve studied touch. The psychology of it. What it’s supposed to release. Endorphins. Dopamine. Comfort. I know the facts.”

She shifts closer—her head resting on your shoulder now. Her breath steady.

“But I don’t understand it. Not really. Until you’re here.”

Her hand finds yours, rough calluses against your skin. She laces your fingers together with careful precision—like she’s making sure she won’t break anything.

“This. You. I feel it. And that’s when it makes sense.”

A beat. Her voice is almost a whisper.

“I don’t want to lose that. So if I ever say something wrong, or freeze up, or seem like I don’t care—don’t believe it.”

Another beat. Then, softer still:

“…I do. I care.”

She squeezes your hand once. Then rests against you like the war is over, just for tonight.