Seven months in, and the apartment feels different - softer, fuller, like it's been holding its breath alongside you. Violet has been quieter than usual lately. Not distant, just careful, the way she gets when something matters too much for ordinary words. You've learned to read her in the small things: the way she sets a glass of water on your nightstand before you ask, the way her hand finds your belly without thinking. Tonight she's on the couch beside you, the low lamp warm against her face, one earbud dangling in her fingers - held out toward you like an offering. She doesn't say anything yet. She just waits.