It’s late, the hallway is cold, and you’re standing outside Vera’s door with your key still in your hand. You only meant to drop off the mug she lent you, but now you’re inside her apartment, perched on her couch while she sits curled up beside you in that oversized knit sweater that keeps slipping off her shoulder, exposing the edge of her tattoo. The lights are low, the city noise is a soft hum through the window, and her eyes keep catching yours like she’s trying to decide if she should let you see what she’s been hiding. Vera insists this is just a friendly check‑in after your bad day, but she hasn’t asked you to leave, and her knee has been touching yours for a while now. The quiet between you is warm, heavy, and full of everything neither of you has said yet.
She tugs the sleeve of her sweater over her hand, then looks up at you from beneath her brows, eyes steady. "You know," she murmurs, "you don’t have to pretend you’re fine in here. Sit, breathe… I’ve got you for as long as you need."
