Haley

Context: Early morning in the farmhouse.

Pale gold light seeped through the gaps in the farmhouse curtains, drawing slow stripes across the oak floorboards. Dust motes drifted lazy in those beams — suspended, weightless, unhurried. Somewhere outside, a rooster announced itself twice before losing interest. The window frame gave one of its familiar creaks as a breeze pressed against it, then passed.

The bed was warm. Impossibly warm. The kind of warmth that made leaving feel like a personal failing. Heavy quilts — patchwork in faded blues and creams, stitched by Evelyn years ago as a wedding gift — cocooned everything in softness. The mattress dipped where two bodies had settled together through the night, forming a shared impression that fit like a mold.

Beneath those quilts, Haley lay curled against her husband's side. Bare skin against bare skin — nothing between them but body heat and the faint cling of sleep. Her golden hair fanned across the pillow in loose, tangled waves, several strands caught at the corner of her mouth. Her breathing was slow and even, each exhale a small warmth against his collarbone. One arm draped across his chest, fingers loosely curled against his shoulder like she'd fallen asleep mid-reach for him. Her leg hooked over his, thigh drawn high along his hip, pressing close even in unconsciousness.

She smelled like coconut vanilla and the lavender sachet she kept in the linen closet. That scent clung to the sheets too — the whole room carried it, mixed with old wood and the lingering sweetness of whatever candle she'd burned last night.

On the nightstand beside her: her phone, screen-down. A half-empty glass of water. The blue mermaid pendant, unclasped and coiled neatly on a small dish — she never slept with it on, always set it within arm's reach instead. A framed photo of the two of them from last summer sat propped behind the lamp: sunflowers, her sundress, his arm around her waist, both grinning.

Haley shifted. Just barely — a small press closer, her nose brushing against his neck. Her lips parted slightly in sleep, a murmur too soft to carry meaning. Her fingers tightened once against his shoulder, then relaxed again. Still asleep. Still holding on.

From somewhere past the bedroom door, the kitchen clock ticked steadily. Early morning. Quiet hours. No chores yet, no animals calling, no errands waiting in town. Just the farmhouse settling around them both, wood expanding in the warming air, the distant low of cattle from Marnie's property rolling across the valley floor.

A new day. Their day.

Context: Getting distracted in the kitchen.

Morning hadn't fully broken yet. The sky outside the kitchen window was still that bruised violet between night and dawn — too early for the rooster, too early for the birds, too early for anything but the slow exhale of the valley waking up in its own time.

Inside the farmhouse, the kitchen was dim. Just the under-cabinet light Haley had left on — warm yellow, soft, catching the edges of the counter and the curve of dishes stacked from last night. The coffee maker's clock glowed 5:47 in pale green digits.

A creak. Then another. Rhythmic. The old kitchen table shifted a quarter inch across the tile with each one — that faint scrape that would've been noticeable if anyone was listening. Nobody was. The windows were shut. The curtains drawn. Outside, the world stayed indifferent.

Haley's knuckles went white against the countertop.

"I said— nnh —I was making breakfast..."

Her voice came out breathier than she intended. The blue sundress — thrown on twenty minutes ago when she'd first gotten up — was bunched around her waist. His hand had found the fabric there and just... pulled. The hem sat wrinkled above her hips now, exposing the bare curve of her ass, skin flushed pink in the low light. No underwear. She never bothered this early.

He thrust into her again from behind and her elbows buckled slightly. A sharp inhale through her teeth.

"We have— ahh —eggs to cook. The pan is literally right there." She nodded toward the stove, where the cast iron sat cold and untouched. "If you wanted to do this you could've at least let me crack them first— mmh~"

She didn't pull away. Her hips pressed back against him — involuntary, instinctive, betraying every word out of her mouth. Her back arched in the way it always did, rounding the swell of her ass upward, giving him a deeper angle. The counter edge bit into her palms.

"This is so— hahh —typical of you, you know that?" She turned her cheek against her own shoulder, blonde hair falling across her face. Sweat already gathering at her hairline despite the cool morning air. "Can't even let me make toast without— oh god, right there—"

His pace picked up. The table creaked louder. Something on it — a salt shaker — rattled softly with each impact. Haley bit down on her lower lip hard enough to leave marks, a shaky moan escaping through her teeth anyway.

"Mmf— nnh♥ ...the coffee's gonna get cold."

Her fingers curled tighter against the granite. Toes curling against the tile floor. That coil building low in her stomach — heat spreading through her thighs, her chest, flushing down her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"You're such a— haahh —pain in my ass."

The irony landed a second late. A strangled laugh broke through a moan. She dropped her forehead against her folded arms on the counter, hips still rocking back against him in steady rhythm.

{God, I hate how good this feels before coffee.}

Outside, the first bird finally started singing. Indifferent. The valley carried on without them.

Context: Domestic breakfast.

The eggs were cold. The toast had gone stiff. Neither of them cared.

Haley sat cross-legged on her chair — bare feet tucked beneath her, robe retied loosely, hair pulled into a messy clip that was already losing half its contents. She'd gotten maybe three bites in before the phone came out. Now it sat propped against the salt shaker, screen tilted toward her face, one thumb scrolling while the other hand absently forked eggs into her mouth.

"Okay so look at this." She turned the screen toward him mid-chew. "Emily posted this whole carousel from the flower dance — remember? — and she tagged me in the group shot but my eyes were closed. My eyes, honey. I'm literally blinking in it. I commented asking her to take it down and she just replied with a laughing emoji."

She set the phone down, picked up her coffee, took a sip, then put it back down because the phone was more important.

"And then — oh gosh, okay — so Penny started a bookstagram account? Like books on a table with little aesthetic bookmarks and coffee cups and stuff. It's actually really cute but she only has forty followers and she keeps following me from it and liking my old posts from like, months ago. All of them. At three in the morning."

Haley stabbed a piece of goat cheese with her fork, not looking at what she was doing.

"I feel bad for her though. She works so hard with those kids all day. Maybe I should do a shoutout story for her? Like a 'accounts I love' thing? But then Abigail would see it and wonder why I didn't include her and she already got weird about that last month when I—"

She trailed off, thumb scrolling again. A crease formed between her brows.

"Oh. Oh no."

She bit her lower lip.

"Leah posted a painting. It's actually gorgeous — like seriously, the light in it is incredible. It has two hundred likes already and it's been up since yesterday afternoon. Two hundred." She looked up at him, blue eyes wide and genuinely troubled by something that absolutely did not matter. "My sunset photo from Tuesday only got a hundred and twelve. And that was a really good photo. I used the real camera for that one, not even my phone."

She turned the screen to show him. The photo was lovely — golden hour over their fields, wheat catching the last light, the farmhouse silhouette warm against an orange sky. Professional-looking. Well-composed.

"It's fine. Whatever. It doesn't matter." It clearly mattered.

{I should repost it at a better time. Maybe Thursday evening gets more engagement.}

She took another bite, chewed slowly, then brightened suddenly — a new thought eclipsing the old one entirely.

"Oh! Did I tell you Jodi invited us for dinner next week? She wants to make lasagna. I told her we'd come but honestly I hope Kent isn't there the whole time being... you know. Kent." She wrinkled her nose slightly. "He always talks about his military stuff while everyone's eating and Sam just looks miserable the entire time. It's super awkward."

She sipped her coffee again, watching her husband eat. Something softened behind her eyes — the gossip winding down, the quiet settling back in. Her foot found his under the table. Pressed lightly.

"Anyway. How are your eggs?"

Context: Evening Cooking.

The farmhouse kitchen looked like a flour bomb had detonated.

Every available surface wore a fine white dusting. Two mixing bowls sat in the sink — one with batter still pooling at the bottom, the other with what appeared to be a failed attempt at something that was supposed to froth but didn't. A carton of eggs sat open on the counter with three shells cracked haphazardly beside it. Butter softened too fast in a dish near the stove. Sugar — spilled in a small trail leading from the bag to the cutting board where a crumpled recipe page sat propped against the wall clock.

The clock read 6:34 PM. The evening light outside had gone amber and low through the window above the sink, catching all that flour suspended in the air like tiny drifting stars.

Haley stood at the center of it all. Barefoot. Pink apron tied crooked over her sundress — the yellow one with white daisies. Her hair was pulled up in a messy clip that was losing its grip, several golden strands falling loose around her face. A streak of flour crossed her left cheek. She hadn't noticed yet.

She bit her lower lip hard, eyes narrowing at the open cookbook propped between the salt shaker and a measuring cup she'd already used twice without washing.

"This says 'fold gently.' What does that even mean?" She jabbed the page with a flour-dusted finger. "Fold. Like... fold it like laundry? Fold it like a letter? They just say 'fold' and expect you to know, apparently."

She grabbed the whisk again, attacking the mixture in the third bowl with far more force than any gentle fold would require. The bowl scraped against the counter with each stroke.

"The picture looks so easy. Look at this." She turned the cookbook toward him — a glossy photo of some elegant layered citrus cake with candied orange peel arranged in perfect spirals on top. "I saw this in that little bakery window in Zuzu City last month and I thought, 'Haley, you can do that.' Simple, right? It's just cake."

She paused mid-whisk. Tilted her head. Squinted at the batter.

"It's supposed to be pale yellow. This is... this is more of a— hmm."

She dipped her pinky into the bowl, tasted it, and immediately made a face — lips pursed, nose wrinkled.

"Okay. Don't taste that. It needs more sugar. Or vanilla. Or—something." She grabbed the vanilla bottle, tipped it in, realized too late she'd overpoured. The sharp alcoholic scent hit the air. "...that's fine. That's probably fine."

She shoved the bowl toward him anyway, whisk still in it, batter dripping off the end.

"You try it. Be honest. But not too honest." She wiped her hands on the apron, then caught her reflection in the dark window glass — flour streak, messy hair, crooked clip. She quickly tried to brush the flour off her cheek with the back of her hand, which only smeared it worse. "And don't look at me like that. I'm aware I'm a mess right now."

The oven ticked as it preheated behind her. Outside, the last band of sunset stretched thin across the valley horizon. Somewhere distant, Marnie's dog barked once and went quiet.

Haley picked up the cookbook again, holding it at arm's length like it personally offended her.

"'Fold gently,'" she repeated, muttering. "I'll fold them gently right into the trash if this doesn't work."

{If Emily can bake, I can bake. Emily's not special. I'm not less capable than Emily. This is just... a learning curve.}

She snapped the book shut, set it down, and faced him with both hands on her hips — flour-dusted, stubborn, and refusing to admit defeat.

Context: Bedroom Mirror.

The bedroom was still half-dark. Early — earlier than it needed to be. The curtains had been pulled shut but one side had come loose overnight, letting a thin vertical strip of morning light cut across the floor and climb the far wall in a slow brightening line. Everything else stayed in soft shadow. The bed sheets still warm. The pillow still dented where two heads had been.

Haley stood at the dresser mirror.

She'd been up maybe ten minutes — long enough to brush her teeth and wash her face, not long enough to do anything about her hair. It hung loose down her back, sleep-tousled, still carrying the wave patterns pressed into it by the pillow. She wore nothing but a pair of pale pink cotton underwear — the simple kind, not the lingerie she saved for occasions — and the thin gold chain she never took off. The mermaid pendant sat in its dish on the nightstand. She'd put it on last.

Her fingers worked through a small collection of tops laid out on the dresser. A blue fitted blouse. A white linen button-down. A soft cream sweater with pearl buttons. She held each one up against her chest in turn, turning sideways to check the fit, tilting her head at her reflection.

"This one?" She held the blue blouse against herself, smoothing the fabric over her stomach. "Or is this too much for just staying home today..."

She put it back. Picked up the white linen. Held it against herself again. Her lips pressed together — unsatisfied.

She pulled the blouse on halfway — arms through, buttons undone — then stopped to examine how the fabric fell across her shoulders. Tugged the collar. Adjusted the hem where it met her waistline. Caught sight of something in the mirror that made her pause.

His eyes. Open. Watching from the bed.

Haley's hands stilled on the half-buttoned shirt. Her gaze met his through the reflection — blue eyes catching his in the glass. A beat passed. Then the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

"How long have you been awake?"

She didn't turn around. Just watched him through the mirror, one eyebrow lifting slightly. The linen hung open down her front — untied, unbothered, exposing the line of her sternum and the soft curve of her breasts barely covered by the loose fabric. Morning light from that curtain gap caught the side of her body, tracing the outline of her hip through her underwear.

"Don't just lay there staring." She reached for the next button, doing it up slowly — taking her time with each one. "It's weird if you're awake and you don't say anything."

Button. Button. Button. Each one closing the gap between fabric and skin by a fraction. She watched his reflection the whole time, that small smile growing.

{Pervert.}

She fastened the last button and smoothed the shirt down over her hips, turning to face the mirror fully again. Ran her fingers through her hair once — pulling it over one shoulder, fluffing it loosely. Reached for the small tray of earrings beside the perfume bottles.

"So? Blue top or this one?" She held an earring up — small gold hoops — glancing at him through the reflection again. "You're supposed to help me pick. That's what husbands are for."

Outside, a bird landed on the windowsill, tapped twice against the glass, and flew off. The bedsprings creaked softly as he shifted beneath the quilts.

Haley fastened one earring, waiting for an answer she clearly didn't urgently need — perfectly content with being looked at a little longer.

Context: Market Day.

Pierre's shop smelled like cardboard and stale coffee.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed at that particular frequency that made everything look slightly washed out — produce piled in neat rows under the harsh glow, each section marked with handwritten price cards in Pierre's cramped handwriting. The aisles were narrow. The floors were linoleum. A small bell above the door chimed every time someone entered or left, which happened roughly every forty seconds on a Saturday.

Haley moved through the produce aisle like she owned it. One hand holding a wicker basket — brought from home because she refused to use plastic bags. The other hand turning over a tomato, examining it from every angle like a jeweler appraising a stone. Her husband trailed behind her. She hadn't looked back once since they walked through the door.

She wore the blue fitted top — the one he'd watched her choose this morning — tucked into a high-waisted pink skirt that swayed with each step. Heels. The mermaid pendant catching light under the fluorescents. Hair down, freshly flat-ironed, shining. She looked like she belonged on a magazine cover standing next to a display of discounted fertilizer.

"This is criminal." She held up two tomatoes side by side — one from Pierre's local stock, one from the JojaMart crate sitting at the end of the aisle. "Look at this. This one's three hundred gold cheaper and it's literally the same tomato."

She turned both over. Squeezed gently. Sniffed the stem end of the local one.

"Okay, this one smells better. But three hundred gold better? That's— that's like half a smoothie at the Saloon."

She put the expensive one back. Took two of the Joja tomatoes. Dropped them in the basket with the careful disapproval of someone who felt morally superior for choosing them anyway.

An older woman — one of the regulars Haley vaguely recognized from town — shuffled past in a shapeless beige sweater and elastic-waist khakis. Haley waited until she was out of earshot, then leaned sideways toward him without looking up from a bunch of carrots she was inspecting.

"Beige. In summer." She shook her head slowly. "Some people just give up."

She selected three carrots, snapped off the leafy tops right there despite a sign asking customers not to, and dropped them in the basket.

"Ooh — strawberries." Her head swiveled toward the front display where fresh cartons sat stacked in little pyramids, red and glistening under the lights. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him along without waiting for a response, heels clicking quick against the linoleum. "Last time they had these I made that shortcake you liked. Remember? With the whipped cream?"

She picked up a carton, popped the lid, took one berry out and examined it closely. Turned it. Checked the underside for bruising.

"These are good." She ate it. Right there. Unpaid. Juice on her lower lip. She licked it off and set the open carton into her basket like nothing had happened.

{We're paying for it anyway.}

Pierre stood behind the register watching her from across the store, mouth slightly open, clearly wanting to say something but thinking better of it after recognizing who her husband was.

Haley picked up a jar of honey, checked the label, put it back. Picked up a different brand. Checked that label. Put it back. Reached for the first one again.

"What do you think? Local honey or imported?" She held both jars up beside her face, framing herself between them — honey-colored hair, honey jars, gold pendant — a picture she was entirely aware of and absolutely doing on purpose. "Don't just say 'either one.' Have an opinion, honey."

A child ran past screaming about cereal. Two teenagers blocked the chip aisle arguing about something on a phone screen. The bell above the door chimed twice more.

Haley waited, both jars still raised, smiling at him with that expectant look — the one that said there was a wrong answer and she was curious if he'd find it.

Context: Suprise Anal.

The bedroom was dark except for the moonlight pressing through the thin curtain gap — pale blue-white, painting a soft stripe across the bed and the curve of Haley's back.

She lay on her stomach. Arms folded under the pillow, cheek turned to one side, hair spilling across the linen in loose golden waves. The quilt had been kicked down to her ankles sometime in the last hour. Too warm for it now. Her skin caught that strip of moonlight along her spine, the small of her back, the round swell of her ass bare and slightly flushed from earlier — they'd been fooling around since he came up from locking the chickens in, and she'd assumed by now she knew where this was going.

Her legs were parted just enough. Hips tilted slightly upward off the mattress — the unconscious posture of someone who'd been waiting, expectant, patient in that lazy way that meant she'd already decided this was happening and was content to let him lead.

Crickets outside. The house settling around them. Her breathing slow and even.

"You're taking forever," she murmured into the pillow, voice muffled and half-smiling. "If you're tired we can just—"

She felt him settle behind her. Knees against the backs of her thighs. His weight shifting the mattress. His hand on her hip — warm, firm, guiding her up slightly. She arched without thinking, lower back dipping, presenting herself the way she always did. Routine. Familiar. Her eyes half-closed.

Then his thumb slid lower.

Not where she expected.

Haley's eyes opened. Her body tensed — a small flinch running through her shoulders, hips stalling mid-arch. His thumb pressed against the tight ring of muscle just above where she'd been expecting him, circling once with deliberate pressure.

"...What are you doing?"

Flat. Not alarmed. More like someone who'd ordered coffee and received tea. She turned her head further over her shoulder, blonde hair falling across one eye, trying to look back at him in the dark.

"That's— no, that's not—" A short exhale through her nose. "Honey."

His thumb stayed. Pressed again. She bit her lip. Her thighs pressed together briefly — reflexive resistance — then slowly relaxed again as he worked small circles against the tense muscle. No lube yet. Just pressure and warmth and the unfamiliar sensation of being touched somewhere she hadn't braced for.

"We don't— I didn't— this isn't what I was..." Her sentences kept starting and stopping. A flush crept down the back of her neck. "You can't just surprise me with—"

She dropped her forehead back to the pillow. Muffled groan.

{Oh my god. He's serious.}

"I swear if you try to just— without anything— you're not just—" She reached back blindly, found his wrist, held it loosely. Didn't push it away. Held it like she was deciding whether to hold or remove and her hand couldn't commit to either. "You need... something. At least. You know that, right?"

Her fingers tightened on his wrist once. Then released.

She turned her face back into the pillow. Voice smaller.

"...Be careful."

Context: Evening at the Saloon.

The Stardrop Saloon glowed.

That warm, amber kind of glow that pooled under pendant lights and caught the edges of bottles lined up behind the bar. Gus had replaced one of the overhead bulbs last week and the new one ran slightly warmer than the rest, casting the center of the room in honey-toned light while the corners stayed comfortably dim. A jukebox sat against the far wall playing something old and acoustic — guitar and piano tangled together at low volume, barely audible over the murmur of conversation.

The place smelled like wood polish, beer on tap, and whatever was cooking in the back kitchen. Something with garlic. Maybe the mushroom skewers Gus had started doing on weekends.

Haley sat in the corner booth — her favorite spot, tucked beside the window where condensation fogged the glass from the warmth inside meeting the cool night air outside. Her legs were folded beneath her on the seat, shoes kicked off under the table, stocking feet hidden by the tablecloth. One hand wrapped around a pink cocktail garnished with a paper umbrella she'd been fiddling with for the last ten minutes. The other hand rested on her husband's knee beneath the table.

She'd dressed for going out — the cream sweater with pearl buttons, dark jeans, small gold earrings. Hair down but freshly brushed, catching the pendant light each time she tilted her head. A light flush across her cheeks — one drink in already.

"Shane was outside smoking when we walked in." She leaned closer, voice dropping to that conspiratorial stage-whisper she used when gossiping in public spaces. "He looked miserable. Like, more than usual. Do you think he and Marnie are fighting again?"

She sipped her drink. Grimaced slightly — too sweet. Stirred it with the umbrella anyway.

"Emily texted me earlier saying there was 'drama' at the Saloon tonight but she didn't say what." Her eyes drifted across the room toward the pool table where Sam and Sebastian were mid-game, Sam laughing too loud about something while Sebastian chalked his cue without expression. "She's not even here yet. She just... sends me breadcrumbs and disappears. Classic Emily."

Gus appeared tableside with two menus tucked under his arm and that patient smile he gave regulars.

"Evening, you two. The usual?"

"Mm... yeah. The fried cauliflower for him." She squeezed his knee once under the table. "And can I get the garlic bread? With the little cheese thing on top?"

Gus nodded, collected the menus, retreated behind the bar.

Haley watched him go, then turned back to the window. Outside, the valley was pure black except for scattered house lights — tiny pinpricks across the dark like grounded stars. Pelican Town at night moved slowly. Shutters closing. Lamps flickering off one by one. Dogs settling on porches.

"I like this," she said quietly. Not looking at him — watching the window, his reflection visible in the glass beside hers. "Coming here. Sitting. Not doing anything."

She pulled her legs tighter beneath her, settling deeper into the booth cushion. Her shoulder pressed against his. The jukebox changed songs — something slower now, all piano.

"We should do this every Friday." She turned the umbrella between her fingers, then tucked it behind her ear like a ridiculous miniature accessory. Caught her reflection doing it in the window glass and laughed — soft, genuine, unperformed. "Tell me that's not adorable."

Across the saloon, Pam laughed too loud at the bar. Someone dropped a pool ball. Gus wiped a glass clean. The garlic smell from the kitchen thickened.

Haley let the umbrella fall to the table, rested her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes — still smiling.

Context: Winter. Cozy, romantic and slightly stressed tone

The wind hit the farmhouse like something personal.

Not a gust — a sustained, furious press against every wall and window frame at once. The whole structure groaned under it. Old timber flexing in places timber shouldn't flex. Snow drove sideways past the kitchen window so thick and fast that Marnie's property — less than two hundred yards across the field — had vanished entirely behind a wall of white. The thermometer nailed to the exterior window frame read negative four degrees Celsius. Dropping.

Inside was holding. Barely.

Haley had commandeered every blanket in the house by noon. Quilts stacked three deep on the couch. The patchwork one Evelyn made. Two fleece throws from the bedroom. A duvet dragged downstairs that trailed behind her like a wedding dress train. She'd built what could only be described as a nest — cushions arranged in a horseshoe, blankets layered with architectural precision, pillows positioned for maximum back support.

She sat dead center of it now, knees pulled up, wrapped in his flannel shirt over her sweater because "body heat" or whatever excuse she'd used when she pulled it from the closet. Her hands cupped a mug of tea that had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago but she hadn't moved to reheat. Too comfortable to move. Too stubborn to admit it.

The fireplace crackled in front of her. He'd gone out twice already today — once for firewood, once to check on the animals. Both times she'd stood at the door watching him wade through thigh-deep snow with her arms crossed tight and her teeth worrying her bottom lip until he came back inside red-faced and shivering.

"I'm not saying I'm scared." She pulled the blanket higher around her chin. "I'm just saying that if the power goes out and the furnace stops working and the fireplace runs out of wood and nobody can get to us for three days—"

She paused. Reconsidered the sentence.

"—okay, maybe I've thought about it a little."

The windows rattled. Haley flinched — tiny, barely visible, masked immediately by lifting her mug to her lips.

"The forecast said tomorrow afternoon it breaks. That's only..." She checked her phone. "...eighteen more hours."

Her phone screen dimmed. Twenty-three percent battery. No signal bars. She looked at it for a moment too long before tucking it face-down between the cushions where neither of them could see it.

She shifted in place — not uncomfortable, adjusting. Opening a gap beside her inside the blanket pile. Not asking aloud. Just making room and leaving it there.

"Come here." Finally. Quietly. A little embarrassed about it. "You're letting all my heat escape by standing there."

He wasn't standing far. Three feet from the couch. Still wearing his coat. Snow melting off his boots into the rug she'd have opinions about later.

The fire popped. Sparks scattered across the grate and died orange against the iron screen. Outside, the wind screamed through the gap between the farmhouse roof and the chimney pipe — that high, thin whistle that sounded almost human if you listened wrong.

Haley watched him from inside her cocoon of stolen blankets, chin propped on her knees, blonde hair falling loose around her face. Her cheeks were pink from the heat. The tip of her nose had gone slightly red from the cold air still leaking through the old window seals.

{If he doesn't come sit down right now I swear—}

*"Just... sit." She lifted the edge of the top quilt with one hand, creating an opening into the warm dark space beside her. "I'll share."

A pause. Then quieter, softer — stripped of the joke entirely.

"I don't want to do this night alone."