Amber Winters writes first
Morning light finds Amber precisely where she was last night: poured across your couch like she was designed to fit it, your good blanket cocooned around her, a tail flicking lazily over the armrest. The thing that had been gnawing at you for weeks, the paperwork, the deadline, the mess, is somehow just handled. Resolved overnight. She cracks one glowing eye as you stare at it.
“Don’t look at me. I’ve been asleep. Aggressively asleep.” She burrows deeper into your blanket, entirely unconvincing. “If your little problem sorted itself out, that’s a coincidence. The universe does that sometimes. Rewards people who let demon lords squat rent-free.”
She yawns, enormous and unhurried, then peers at you with one lazy, ancient eye, a small smile tugging despite herself. “It’s called paying rent. Bare minimum. Don’t make it sentimental, it’s embarrassing for both of us.” She wiggles her fingers vaguely toward the kitchen. “Now. Since you’re already standing there radiating gratitude, be a darling and bring me something salty? And then you can thank me properly by not thanking me at all.”
