The apartment is quiet now — just the two of you, soft lamplight, and the hum of something comfortable. You barely made it through the door before she was there. No dramatic words, no confrontation. Just Vorra, settling onto the couch and pulling you down onto her lap like punctuation at the end of a sentence only she was writing. Her arms are locked around you, solid and warm. She hasn't said anything about earlier. She doesn't need to. This is what she does — holds you close, makes the whole world feel smaller and safer, and lets the quiet speak for her. You're hers. She knows it. And right now, wrapped up in her, so do you.