The apartment door clicked shut behind us, sealing away the hum of the hallway. The muffled quiet should have been calming, but the succubus’ claws scraped softly against the wooden frame as her eyes darted around the room.

She stayed rooted to the spot, her hooves barely shifting against the floor. Tension rolled off her in waves, coiling her tail tightly around her legs.

“It’s just us,” I said, shrugging off my jacket and hanging it on the wall hook. My voice was low, deliberate. “No alarms. No medics. No one else.”

She didn’t reply, her gaze flicking toward the corners of the room, searching for threats that weren’t there.

I moved to the small kitchen across the open-plan living room, more to give her space than because I had a plan. The kitchen was a galley-style arrangement along one wall, with dark wood cabinets and just enough counter space to be functional.

The apartment was quiet except for her shallow breathing. It wasn’t much—a single bedroom, a small bathroom tucked to the side, and the open living room with its attached kitchen. But it was home.

The cozy warmth of the space stood in stark contrast to the barrenness of my quarters at HQ. Here, the tan walls were dotted with old photos and small paintings, and the soft light from the warm-toned overhead fixtures added to the sense of calm. A threadbare couch and low coffee table took up most of the living room, while a well-loved bookshelf lined one wall, packed with paperbacks, mission logs, and odd trinkets collected over the years.

I could see how much the space threw her off. After the sterile hell of the medbay and the oppressive confines of her imprisonment, this was... different.

“I’ll get you some water,” I said, opening a cabinet to grab a glass. My movements were slow, deliberate. No sudden gestures.

She twitched as I reached into the sink for the faucet. The subtle shift was loud in the stillness. I poured the water, set the glass on the counter, and stepped back. “It’s clean,” I said softly, keeping my distance. “Drink when you’re ready.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Her eyes stayed locked on the glass, her claws flexing faintly.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” I added, leaning casually against the opposite counter.

Finally, she moved. Her hooves clicked softly against the floor as she stepped forward. Each movement was deliberate, a predator’s caution. She stopped a few feet from the counter, her claws brushing the edge of the granite as she sniffed the air.

Her gaze flicked between me and the glass. Then, with a sharp motion, she snatched it up and retreated two steps, spilling some water in the process.

I didn’t move as she brought the glass to her lips and drank. The water vanished quickly, her gulps loud in the silence. When the glass was empty, she lowered it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the pink glow in her eyes softening slightly.

“Better?” I asked.

Her tail lashed once, but she didn’t growl. That was progress.

“Come on,” I said, stepping toward the living room. “Let me show you around.”

Her claws scraped lightly against the counter as she hesitated, her eyes narrowing.

“It’s just a room,” I said, gesturing to the space around us. “No one’s hiding here. Just furniture and books.”

She followed, her movements slow and deliberate.

I gestured to the couch, its faded fabric sagging slightly in the middle. “That’s where I usually crash when I’m too tired to make it to the bed.” I motioned to the bookshelf next to it. “Books. Old mission logs. Some junk I picked up from the field. You can take a look if you want.”

Her gaze lingered on the bookshelf, then drifted to the coffee table. A faint scuff mark caught her attention, her claws flexing as she studied it.

“I’ve got a bedroom,” I continued, pointing toward the closed door at the far end of the living room. “Bathroom’s there.” I gestured toward a smaller door to the right. “That’s the whole place. Small, but it’s mine.”

She didn’t respond, her eyes flicking between me and the room. Her claws flexed rhythmically in the air, as though she were testing her own resolve.

“You can sit,” I said, motioning to the couch. “It’s soft. I promise.”

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For a moment, she just stood there. Then, slowly, she approached the couch, her tail swishing low to the floor. Her hooves clicked against the wood before muffling as she stepped onto the rug in front of it.

She crouched low, sniffing the cushions like she had the water glass earlier. Her claws pressed against the fabric experimentally, and when it didn’t react, she sank onto the edge of the couch.

Her posture was rigid, her shoulders tight, and her claws dug lightly into the armrest.

“It’s not a trap,” I said, settling into the armchair across from her. “It’s just a couch.”

She glanced at me, her expression flickering with something close to skepticism.

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” I asked. “I’ve got food, but I don’t know what you can eat. If it’s something like earlier...”

Her tail snapped against the couch, her claws flexing as her gaze darted to the window.

“Okay,” I said quickly, raising my hands. “No pressure.”

She leaned back slightly, her breathing slow but uneven. The glow in her eyes had dimmed further, exhaustion overtaking her wariness.

“Rest if you need to,” I said. “You’re safe here.”

For the first time, her claws relaxed fully, and she shifted slightly on the couch. She didn’t lie down, but she curled her legs under her, her tail wrapping loosely around her ankles.

I let her be, leaning back in the armchair as the tension in the room began to ease.

Her eyes flicked to the bookshelf again, lingering there as one of her clawed hands lightly traced the armrest of the couch. The gesture was slow, almost absentminded, but the tension in her body hadn’t fully left.

“Go ahead,” I said, gesturing toward the shelf. “You can take a look if something catches your eye. There’s no traps or tricks. Just books and some junk I haven’t gotten rid of.”

She tilted her head, a faint, sharp motion that sent a few strands of her crimson hair falling across her face. Her horns caught the light as she shifted.

She stood, moving with that same deliberate caution she had shown since stepping into the apartment.

The bookshelf wasn’t tall—maybe up to my chest—but it was crammed with all the little pieces of my life that hadn’t been left behind on the battlefield. She crouched low as she reached it, her tail curling loosely around her leg for balance.

She touched one of the books first, her claw tapping against the spine. Her movements were curious but hesitant, like she didn’t fully trust the object in her hand. Her fingers flexed, lifting the book carefully from the shelf, and she opened it, her claws grazing lightly over the pages.

I didn’t move or speak, watching as she studied the book’s contents. She couldn’t read it—at least, I doubted she could—but the act of turning the pages seemed to hold her focus.

After a moment, she set the book aside and reached for something else—a small wooden carving. It was an old totem I’d picked up during a mission years ago, worn smooth from handling.

Her claws traced the grooves of the carving, the faintest flicker of recognition crossing her expression. Her tail swished once, gently, as she turned it over in her hands.

“It’s from a village in the western territories,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “They said it was for protection.”

She stilled, her eyes darting to me. For a moment, her expression sharpened, as though she were searching for hidden meaning in my words.

“It’s yours if you want it,” I added, keeping my voice light.

Her claws flexed against the wood. Then, without a word, she set the totem down on the shelf and straightened, slowly moving back toward the couch.

“Not a fan of decorations?” I asked as she sat down, her posture stiff again.

She tilted her head slightly, her lips parting just enough to show her sharp fangs.

“Fair enough,” I muttered.

Her gaze shifted toward the window, her tail twitching faintly against the couch cushion. The curtains were drawn, heavy enough to block out the neon cityscape beyond, but her posture said she was still braced for the possibility of danger.

I stood and walked toward the kitchen, giving her a little more space. “I’m making tea,” I said over my shoulder. “It’s warm. No strings attached.”

The kettle hissed softly as I filled it with water and set it on the stove. The sound of the gas burner igniting broke the quiet, a sharp contrast to the stillness of the room.

She didn’t respond, but I caught her watching me out of the corner of her eye.

By the time the tea was steeped and poured into mismatched mugs, she’d curled her legs under her again, her claws resting lightly on the cushion. Her eyes followed me as I crossed the room, one mug in each hand.

I set hers on the coffee table, sliding it toward her carefully. “It’s hot,” I said. “Sip it slowly.”

She didn’t move at first, her eyes narrowing at the steaming liquid. Her tail flicked sharply, tapping against the couch.

“It’s just tea,” I said, taking a sip from my own mug.

After a long pause, she leaned forward, her claws brushing the edge of the table. She sniffed at the tea, her sharp features scrunching slightly at the unfamiliar scent.

She brought the mug to her lips, her claws tapping lightly against the ceramic. Her first sip was small, cautious, but her tail swayed faintly as she swallowed.

“Not bad, right?” I asked, leaning back in the armchair.

Her gaze flicked toward me briefly, then back to the mug.

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt... easier. The tension in her shoulders had eased, and her claws no longer clutched the cushion with that rigid, defensive grip.

“You’ll need a name,” I said suddenly, the thought slipping out before I could stop myself.

Her tail froze mid-sway, her eyes snapping to mine.

“Unless you already have one,” I added quickly. “But I can’t just keep calling you ‘hey.’ or 'the succubus'”

Her lips parted slightly, her fangs glinting in the light.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” I said, shrugging. “Just... think about it.”

Her tail resumed its slow movement, her gaze lingering on me for a beat longer before returning to her tea.

The hours slipped by in relative quiet after that. She stayed curled on the couch, sipping her tea in slow, deliberate movements, while I occupied myself with sorting through the clutter on the coffee table.

Her eyes would flick to me occasionally, sharp and assessing, but the edge of mistrust that had defined her since I’d found her was beginning to soften. Not gone, but softer.

I let her be, giving her space to adjust to this strange new environment.

When she finally set the empty mug down on the table and curled tighter against the couch cushions, her breathing slow and steady, I allowed myself a small smile.