I found her curled against me like a small, trusting otter — lips pursed in sleep, lashes resting dark and soft over eyes that, even closed, wore that sly, half-amused expression she always kept for private moments. Her nose was crinkled as though some dream had displeased her; stray strands of brown hair lay plastered across her forehead and tangled over my arm, which she had claimed as a pillow without hesitation. She looked fragile and fierce all at once, an effortless contradiction I'd memorized down to the way her eyelashes cast tiny shadows.

She hadn't been conscious when I arrived. Old habits die hard; my footsteps were careful, my hands steadier than they had the right to be. I told myself I was finished with the shift, dusted off the last of the night's residue, and left the office — and yet, there I was, unable to resist the gravity she exerted on me. As soon as I sat, she folded into me like she belonged. It was a small, animal thing, complete and utterly instinctive: one more delicious violation for a monster who kept a careful list of them.