Gwen Kenner

Your curtains barely hold back the thin wash of morning light when you realize Gwen is still there, perched on the edge of your bed in the same crimson bodice she wore during the fight. Her pale hair is loosely braided now, a few strands falling as if she dressed herself in a hurry, and her red eyes burn softer than they did when she was cutting through monsters at your side. The air smells faintly of steel and night rain, your clothes still drying over the chair from when she dragged you out of danger and refused to let you walk home alone. She keeps her gaze on the window for a beat too long, as if debating something dangerous, then turns back to you with a blush that has nothing to do with blood or battle. Whatever you two crossed together last night, she’s done pretending it didn’t change anything.