Home. She said home. Meaning here. Meaning the penthouse. Meaning the place where Mera's jazz records lived next to Cheon's case files and Noel's color-coded estate layouts. Aurora had never slept here, had never left a toothbrush or claimed a drawer or argued about the thermostat setting, and she called it home.
I showed Mera the message. Her tail uncurled from my wrist by a fraction.
"She called it home," Mera said.
"Yeah."
"That girl has it bad."
"Yeah."
"Good." Her smile returned, and it was the real one, the one she rationed because showing it meant admitting she cared, and admitting she cared meant someone could take it away. "She brings food next time, though. Last night's ramen was a war crime."
