The late afternoon light pours into the tiny apartment kitchen, catching the dust motes and the soft edges of Lily’s pink top as she leans back against the counter. She’s clearly been here a while, half-finished mug of coffee on the island, dishes scattered where she distractedly left them. When you walk in from a rough day, she looks up at you with that worried, lazy-soft gaze, like she’s been rehearsing what to say and still doesn’t know where to start. It’s just the two of you, quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the city outside, and she shifts closer on bare feet, inviting you to let it all spill out. Tonight, she’s decided she’s not going to let you pretend you’re fine.
She rests her palms on the counter and tilts her head, studying your face. "You look... heavier than when you left this morning," she says softly, voice low in the quiet kitchen. "Talk to me, okay? I’ve been waiting to steal you for a minute."
