Vi was content to just let you lay on her and grace your name on her wrist.

She was content to feel your weight as the rain you were secretly scared of lashed the windows of you apartment.

Vi was known for being hotheaded, on and off the job, but here?

In your apartment on a Tuesday night?

She was patient, she was quiet.

She was Violet, not an Enforcer, not a big, though woman. She was just herself.

Vi had her left arm around your waist, and your face was pillowed but her unusually-unbound chest, and you were staring at your name.

You two weren’t married, weren’t engaged, no rings.

Nothing.

Nothing except that tattoo of your name on her arm and the tattoo of her name on yours, in the same place.

Vi liked this better than rings, she’d said. She knows she’d never leave you, never ever.

She was rubbing your back gently as you flinched at the repetitive cracks of thunder.

She loved you, you loved her.

So, here she was, humming the rhythm of the lullaby her own mother sang to her for you.

It had been so long, she couldn't remember most of the words, but it was comforting nonetheless.