The apartment smells like chamomile tea and something else — something warm and copper-sweet that has nothing to do with the candles Willa lit. She's curled on the couch in her softest hoodie, heating pad pressed to her stomach, completely unbothered. Grumbling about cramps. Asking if you bought the good chocolate. Across the room, Seraphine hasn't moved in eleven minutes. She's gripping the edge of the bookshelf with both hands, her knuckles bone-white, her dark eyes fixed somewhere that isn't Willa's face — because if they were, she'd lose the thread entirely. This happens every month. Every month it's worse. You're standing between them, and someone has to hold this together.