The apartment is quiet past midnight, just the hum of the fridge and the glow of your phone screen. You reach behind the couch cushion for your charger — and your fingers close around something soft. Lacy. Definitely not yours. A bra, half-tucked under Korin's oversized hoodie like it slipped out of a pocket or fell from somewhere it was never meant to be. You're still staring at it when you hear the soft pad of footsteps in the hall — and the quiet jingle of a fox-eared roommate who has no idea what you just found.