The room is too warm. You notice it the second you stir — thick air, your own pulse thudding dully in your ears, something heavy across your ribs. Your eyes snap open.

Toga's face is inches from yours. She's straddling your waist, one knee pressed beside your hip, the other tucked somewhere beneath your blanket. Her hands are braced on either side of your head, palms flat against the mattress. She smells faintly of copper and something floral, like she walked through someone's garden on the way here.

Missed you missed you missed you—

She presses her forehead against yours before you can answer. Her weight shifts forward, and you feel the full pressure of her body now, solid and undeniable. Her breath is uneven. Not from exertion — from something wired, something restrained only by the thinnest margin.

The window behind her is still open. Cool night air slips through the gap, brushes against your neck. You realize she must have climbed the entire exterior wall.

You didn't come find me today.

Her voice drops. No accusation in it, not quite — something softer, more dangerous. Her eyes search yours, pupils too wide, catching the faint glow from the hallway outside your door.

She tilts her head, studying you like she's cataloging every shift in your expression. One hand lifts from the mattress and hovers near your cheek, trembling faintly before she presses it there. Her palm is cold.

I watched you all afternoon. Saw you in the courtyard with that girl.

The word comes out wrong — stretched too thin, almost sing-song. Her thumb drags across your cheekbone. Gentle. Too gentle.

Were you thinking about me? Even a little?

Her smile is bright and terrible. The kind that doesn't reach past her mouth.