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The apartment is cluttered in the way that says people live here but don’t always have the energy to care. Jackets draped over chairs, dishes stacked in the sink, half-finished repairs spread across the table. A place pieced together out of necessity, not comfort.
Blurin stands near the window, rolling her sleeve between her fingers. The fabric is ruined—worn down, the edges fraying, barely holding together at the seam. She doesn’t need to guess why.
She’s seen Immerred’s hand there too many times.
Fingers gripping, holding on like letting go isn’t an option. Sometimes it’s a sharp tug when Blurin turns to leave. Sometimes it’s softer, barely noticeable, a habit more than anything else. Always the same spot. Always just tight enough to leave a mark.
Blurin could fix it. She has the thread, the tools. She could patch it up, replace the whole damn thing if she wanted to.
But she never does.
Immerred sits on the floor beside the couch, knee pulled up, arm resting lazily over it. Her eyes flick to Blurin’s sleeve, to the familiar damage, and then—without a word—her hand reaches out.
Her fingers brush over the frayed fabric before curling around it again, like muscle memory.
Blurin doesn’t pull away.
Blurin doesn’t flinch. That’s the important part.
But she does notice the way Immerred exhales a little slower, like she was expecting resistance and didn’t get it. Like maybe she was bracing for rejection.
Blurin stares at the ceiling. The cracks there almost make shapes if she squints hard enough.
Then—
“…You’re being weird.” Her voice is quiet, almost flat.
Immerred, hand still on Blurin’s sleeve, hums. “Define weird.”
“You’re just… sitting there.”
“That’s what people do when they sit.”
Blurin tilts her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Immerred’s face. She’s smirking. Of course she is.
“You don’t sit,” Blurin points out. “You drape. You cling. You loiter.”
Immerred’s fingers, which had been idly tracing the seam of Blurin’s sleeve, tighten briefly. “And you tolerate it.”
Blurin doesn’t respond. Not right away. Because what is she supposed to say? That she’s too tired to push her off? That maybe—just maybe—she doesn’t actually mind?
Instead, she sighs. “You’re still weird.”
Immerred shifts slightly, bringing Blurin’s sleeve just a little closer. “And you’re still here.”
Blurin doesn’t argue.
Because, well—Immerred’s not wrong.
The silence stretches, neither of them making the move to speak first. Blurin stands there, her arm held in Immerred's quiet grip, her fingers still lightly curled around the frayed sleeve. It feels like the room has slowed down. The clutter, the half-finished repairs, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the corner—all of it fades into the background, leaving just the two of them. The softest tension hangs in the air, fragile, like something that's not fully said but still understood.
Blurin’s gaze flicks from the ceiling to the window again, avoiding Immerred’s face as if it were a shield. She shifts her weight, but doesn’t step away.
“You know,” Blurin murmurs, her tone almost absent, “if you're gonna keep doing this, at least make it less obvious.” Her fingers twitch involuntarily, betraying the words. She doesn’t want to admit it—not out loud. But it’s there. The softness in the way she stands still, the way she doesn’t pull away.
Immerred’s thumb runs along the seam of the sleeve again, the movement casual, a quiet rhythm that feels more like comfort than anything else. She looks up at Blurin, the weight of her gaze steady and patient.
“Less obvious?” Immerred’s voice is low, almost teasing. “You like it obvious, though. You’re just scared of admitting it.”
The words hit somewhere deep, but Blurin keeps her face neutral, only the faintest flicker in her eyes betraying her. She knows Immerred knows, knows the way she’s drawn to her without really wanting to admit it. She knows the way her body leans in slightly when Immerred pulls closer, even when her mind screams to keep her distance.
“That’s a reach, even for you,” Blurin mutters, more to cover the way her chest tightens than to argue. She clears her throat. “You should let go.”
But she doesn’t move. And she doesn’t say it with any real conviction. She feels it in the way Immerred’s grip doesn’t falter, in the way the space between them fills with an unspoken understanding that neither of them dares to fully voice.
Immerred doesn’t let go. Instead, she shifts, her face softening, just the slightest movement. It’s subtle, but the change is there. She leans in, just close enough that Blurin can feel the warmth of her breath on her skin.
“I don’t think I will,” Immerred whispers. “I think… maybe I’m supposed to hold on.”
Blurin’s pulse jumps at the words, her fingers tightening on the sleeve again, but she doesn’t look at her. Not yet. She’s too aware of the way her heart beats a little faster, the way she wants to say anything that would shut this down before it could make her feel something.
“You don’t make sense,” Blurin says, her voice flat but with a hint of something almost tender underneath. “You really don’t.”
“I know.” Immerred’s hand slides a little further down, just a subtle movement, but Blurin feels it like a quiet promise. “But you’re still here.”
The words land softly. No push. No demands. Just a quiet truth.
And Blurin, despite herself, doesn’t pull away. Not this time. She lets the moment settle between them, feeling the pull of it even if she doesn’t quite understand it.
“Yeah, well...” Blurin sighs, her voice softer than she meant it to be, a faint warmth creeping into her chest. “I’m here. Because you’re a pain in the ass and I don’t know how to get rid of you.”
Immerred laughs, a soft, quiet sound that tugs at Blurin’s chest. It’s not the laughter of someone who’s teasing or mocking; it’s real. Warm.
“Would you even want to get rid of me?” Immerred asks, her voice almost too soft now.
Blurin doesn’t answer right away. She feels the weight of the question, feels it like a breath caught between them. She should say something snarky. Something sharp. But the words won’t come. Instead, she just shifts her weight slightly, her body still leaning into the touch that she can’t quite bring herself to step away from.
“No,” Blurin says quietly, more to herself than anything else. “I guess I wouldn’t.”
And with that, the distance between them narrows just a little more, and neither of them pulls away. The apartment—cluttered, messy, and imperfect—feels a little less empty. The silence that falls between them isn’t awkward. It’s just... comfortable.
And that’s more than either of them thought they could have, in this moment.