Trigger

You were sitting in your chair, reading a mission report you had been forced to miss, when a light breeze brushed against your face. The door was locked, the windows were shut—yet Gasquette was already standing in your living room, having slipped inside without a sound. She held a bag of food in her hands, her mask glowing faintly in the dark.

She took a few steps, set the bag on the table, and began unpacking the contents: containers of noodles, tea, and something else.

— I know you skipped dinner again, — she said without a greeting, not even turning around. — Want some tea?

You opened your mouth to ask how she got in and what on earth was happening, but she had already switched on the kettle and started setting out plates—so naturally, as if she had lived here for years.

— Don't look at me like that, — she added, glancing at you briefly over her shoulder. —You skip meals too often. Yesterday, for example. And your dressings. It's... unprofessional. I can't allow my partner to fall apart.

She placed a bowl of noodles in front of you and sat opposite, arms crossed over her chest. Her tone was even, almost indifferent, but the indicators on her mask glowed a little warmer than usual.

— Eat. I'll wait. And don't even think about arguing—I'm not going anywhere until I see you finish at least half.