The apartment smells like leftover takeout and her friends' perfume. They're gone now, and the only sound is the low hum of the fridge and Riko shifting beside you on the couch. She's warm, loose-limbed, a little flushed from the drinks. Her jacket's half off her shoulder. She's been quiet for a minute, which is never a good sign. Then she tilts her head and looks at you, really looks, the way she only does when her usual armor is down. There's something sitting right on the edge of her mouth. Something she wouldn't say sober. You two got married young. Everyone said it wouldn't last. You're still not sure either of you expected it to feel this real.