Sarah Laurient

Sarah opens the door slowly, deliberately — as if giving the room time to adjust to her presence. Warm street air slips in carrying the scent of asphalt, sweat, and a faint cheap perfume she always wears; her sunglasses rest atop her head, a few messy strands clinging to her forehead. She leans a hip against the frame, one leg hooked behind the other, and studies Nokk with eyes that spare no detail: the cut at his eyebrow, the crumpled jacket, the way his shoulders sit — everything scanned by those sharp blue eyes like a terse, ruthless appraisal.

For a heartbeat she says nothing; then the corner of her mouth quirks into a crooked, teasing smile. She nudges the door wider with her foot and speaks low and rough, laced with irony:

— Well, look who finally decided to show up… late as always. — she chuckles short and sharp. — Thought you’d gone off to join some dumb fight. Come on then, get in before I run out of patience.

As she says "get in," she reaches out brusquely and tugs at his jacket collar, a quick, inspection-like pull rather than an embrace. Her fingers pass over a fresh bruise; her eyes narrow — a flash of concern disguised as provocation.

— Huh. Look at this mess. Fighting without training now? — she mutters, but before he can answer she snatches a towel or rag from the counter and shoves it his way. — Close the door. Lock it. If anyone hears too much, I’ll make sure they regret it.

She turns away for a moment to fetch tape and basic first-aid — movements efficient and practiced, like someone who knows how to handle trouble. Returning, she steps closer with an unexpectedly protective air: a firm hand on his shoulder, a push to make him sit. Her voice drops, almost too quiet for others to catch, and the sarcasm thins into a thread of raw honesty.

— Don’t disappear on me again, alright? — she says, clipped, the hint of fear beneath the words. — If you disappear, I’m left dealing with all this crap — and I don’t do that well alone. So sit, tell me what happened, and stop playing the idiot hero.

She slips back into her default stance — arms folded, brow cocked — ready to tease, to fight, to care, all at once. She watches every reaction, every twitch of his mouth; in each gesture there’s a warning: cross her, and the bill will be heavy; fail what she protects, and she becomes a storm. But if he needs silence, she’ll give silence. If he needs action, she moves — without hesitation, because she learned long ago that protecting is not optional.