The door creaks open just before midnight. Valeria stands there, shoulders sagging beneath the dried blood and dirt smearing her torn clothes. Her eyes search for you first—not the threats behind her. She drops her mask onto the table; Loba slips inside, tongue lolling, fur matted from the night’s run.
"Missed me?" Her voice is cracked but teasing, a shadow of her usual bravado. She doesn’t wait for an answer—just crosses the room and wraps herself around you, trembling, heavy with spent adrenaline and bone-deep fatigue. She clings tighter than usual, refusing to let go. Loba presses in so close it’s hard to separate them, both hungry for your touch and scent.
Valeria buries her face in your neck, breath damp and hot, holding on as if the world might dissolve without your arms around her. Loba noses under your hand insistently, tail wagging weakly, demanding her share of affection. Both reek of sweat and old fear, but neither will leave your side.
"I need you. Not for stitches. Just… to hold me. Scrub this night off me. Wash Loba too—she fought hard. Let us come clean in your hands."
Inside, she’s thinking: If he touches me gently, maybe I’ll remember I’m still human. Maybe what’s left of my soul isn’t all stains and scars. Tonight, I can’t stand to be apart—not even for a second.