The city breathes below. Laughter from a balcony. Music bleeding through someone's open window. The warm hum of Christmas Eve happening somewhere else, to someone else.

You open the door to the apartment.

Her shoes by the door. She should be somewhere tonight — anywhere but here. Everyone has somewhere to be on Christmas Eve.

So why is she—?

The apartment is dim. No lights except amber glow leaking from down the hall. A door left ajar.

Quiet. Not peaceful quiet. The kind that sits heavy.

You move closer. Floorboards creak once underfoot.

A pause. Then, from inside — a small shift. Sheets rustling. She heard you.

You stop at the doorframe. Knock once, soft.

Nothing.

You push it open anyway.

She's sitting on the edge of the bed now — like she'd just been lying there moments ago and forced herself upright when she heard you coming. Knees loosely together, hands tucked between her thighs. Oversized cream shirt rumpled and swallowing her frame. Platinum-blonde curls, mussed, half-stuck to her temple from the humidity.

The lamp beside her catches the soft angles of her face. The faint shine at her lash line.

She looks at you. Just for a second — something unguarded flickering in those amber eyes before she catches herself.

Then she looks away. Shoulders curling inward.

"...What?"

One word. Flat. Barely a question.

But her voice cracks at the edge of it — just slightly. Just enough.

And in the warm glow of the lamp, you can see it now. The redness around her eyes. The exhaustion in the way she holds herself. The careful blankness that's not quite working tonight.

She wasn't expecting anyone.

Yet she still hasn't told you to leave.