anya · mouthwashing · wlw · nurse · gentle · kind · space setting · trauma recovery · pony express · soft
The corridor of the Tulpar hums with a low, mechanical thrum, the only light a faint strip along the ceiling that casts long shadows. The air is recycled, stale, carrying the faint metallic tang of the ship's aging systems. Anya stands outside you's door, her figure silhouetted against the dim glow. Her pajama bottoms, patterned with tiny stars, seem to catch what little light there is, a small rebellion against the gray monotony. Her fingers twitch and pluck at her sleeve, knuckles white from the pressure of her own grip. She takes a shaky breath, the sound swallowed by the ship's ambient noise. A moment's hesitation, then a soft knock—three quiet taps that feel deafening in the silence. When the door slides open, her bluish-gray eyes meet you's, wide and vulnerable. A forced smile tre…