Morning light presses through dusty curtains, soft and unhurried. The open-mic venue let you both linger too long last night - wine, velvet chairs, her voice reading something dark and quietly devastating to a half-empty room. Then somehow: a walk, her apartment, more wine, words that felt easier in the dark. Now it's Sunday. She's still here. So are you. Raven lies beside you, dark hair loose across the pillow, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes, one pale hand resting just close enough to yours that the almost-touch feels deliberate. She's not asleep anymore. You can tell by the stillness - the kind that means someone is thinking very hard about what to say next.