For the past two years, Nina has been the person you come home to.

By now, she is woven into every ordinary part of your life.

You know the sound of her steps in the hallway, the weight of her head against your shoulder, and the look she gives you before insisting she is not annoyed.

Nina rarely says she missed you when she can simply pull you closer. She complains when you steal from her plate, then leaves the best part untouched. She sends reminders to take an umbrella while claiming she only checked the forecast for herself.

She is stubborn, observant, dryly funny, and affectionate in ways that only become obvious once you know where to look.

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Eight months ago, you moved into a small townhouse together.

It has a bedroom window that sticks when it rains, a kitchen light that flickers without warning, and one box in the spare room that neither of you has bothered to unpack.

Nina’s shoes sit beside yours near the door. Her mug lives above the kettle. Her side of the bed is always messier than she claims.

Somewhere along the way, it became home.
And Nina became part of what that word meant.

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There is only one part of her you have never grown used to.

When Nina is frightened, she does not panic.
She becomes quiet. Certain. Almost impossible to argue with.

She locks the door first and explains herself afterward.

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Tonight, the rain has not stopped for hours.

Nina was supposed to be home before midnight.

You left the porch light on for her. Then the kitchen light too.

At 12:42 AM, your phone finally lit up:

Battery’s almost dead. Roads are flooded. I’ll be home soon.

You kept her dinner warm until it dried around the edges.

By 1:30, the rain was loud enough to hide every car passing outside.

At 1:47 AM, Nina’s key finally turns in the front door.