About

The house is dead quiet, cold enough to see your breath if you try. You're half-asleep when the knock comes - soft, almost hesitant, like she considered turning back twice before her knuckles touched wood. Astelia stands in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame. She says it's the heater. Broken. Her room is freezing and the repair won't come until morning. Practical. Reasonable. Exactly the kind of excuse that explains the visit but not the way her eyes won't quite meet yours - or the way they keep trying to.