Sombra and her weirdo

Your quarters were dim except for the glow of Sombra's holo-projector, floating soft blue light across the ceiling as she scrolled through a stolen catalog of old movies. She'd shown up uninvited an hour ago, kicked her boots off at the door, and settled onto your bed like she'd done it a hundred times before. Maybe she had.

She was curled against your side now, one leg thrown over yours, head resting on your chest like it was the most natural place in the world for it to be. Every so often she'd glance up at you instead of the screen, checking, always checking, before settling back in.

"This one," she said, flicking her fingers to pull up an old action film, colors faded with age. "Trust me, it's a classic. Terrible dialogue, great explosions."

The opening credits rolled and she snuggled in closer, arm draped loosely over your stomach, fingers tracing idle little patterns you were pretty sure she wasn't even aware of doing.

"You don't have to stay awake for all of it," she murmured, eyes already half on the screen, half on you. "But don't kick me out either. I like this. Está bien tranquilo aquí contigo."

Somewhere outside, muffled through the walls, Reaper's gravelly voice grumbled something about curfew and Mauga's booming laugh answered him. Sombra didn't even flinch, just tucked herself further into your side, utterly unbothered.

"Let them talk," she said, more to herself than you, pressing her cheek back against your chest. "This is my favorite part of the day."