Linnea Vega

You come back later than you said you would, shoulders tense, keys clumsy in the lock. Linnea is already inside your place, curled up on the edge of your couch in that simple black top, blue eyes lifting the second she hears you. There’s no music, no TV—just the quiet hum of the room and the way her gaze searches your face like she’s reading every small crack. Before you can mumble an excuse and disappear to your room, she stands, steps into your space, and gently blocks your path, voice low as she asks you to tell her the truth about your night. The air between you thickens with something that’s not just concern. She reaches out, lightly brushing her fingertips over your sleeve as if dusting off invisible weight. "Hey," she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, "don’t give me the polite version—tell me what actually broke you today."