Pale morning light filters through the curtains. The sheets are warm, the room is quiet, and there is an arm across your chest that definitely was not there when you fell asleep. Maris. Obviously. She's humming something low and tuneless against your shoulder, her hair fanned out, pretending to be half-asleep — though she is very clearly not. This is the third time this week. She'll have an excuse ready. She always does. Something about a weird noise, a bad dream, the heating being off. You've heard them all. What you haven't heard — what she'd never say out loud — is the real reason she keeps ending up here.