“Okay.” Ramona sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A knock sounded on the door. “Ramona, you guys okay?” Kashvi sounded worried.
“Yeah, sorry, I had a nightmare,” Ramona called out. “Thanks for checking on us.”
“Let us know if you need anything,” Posey said through the door, and Ramona thanked them again, then heard their footsteps down the hall. She almost smiled at the idea that her roommates had both come to her apparent rescue.
Zara lay back slowly, still holding Ramona’s wrist like a lifeline. She pulled Ramona’s arm across her chest, fingers wrapped around her forearm now, gentler but no less insistent. Like she needed the weight of it. The proof that someone was there. Or that she was here.
“How can I help?” Ramona asked quietly.
Zara’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling, on that duck-shaped water stain. “Just keep breathing.”
“What?”
“Your breathing. I like the sound.” Zara’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It helps.”
Something in Ramona’s chest felt heavy with the weight of melancholy. She let her breathing stay audible, steady and even. In and out. A rhythm for Zara to follow.
They lay there in the darkness, Zara’s fingers wrapped around Ramona’s wrist, neither of them speaking. Gradually, Ramona felt Zara’s breathing start to match hers. Felt the tension in her body begin to ease, degree by degree.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ramona whispered after a long moment.
Zara shook her head once, sharp. Her jaw was set, that careful control sliding back into place even as her hand stayed locked around Ramona’s arm.
Ramona didn’t push. She just lay there beside her, breathing, being present in the only way Zara seemed able to accept.
And for the first time since the summoning, Ramona saw it — saw past the expensive suits and the corporate efficiency and the three-hundred-year-old demon who organized bookshops for fun. Saw the soul underneath. Someone who had nightmares. Someone who needed comfort but didn’t know how to ask for it. Someone who was scared.
Someone who was lonely.
A sound broke the silence. Scratching. Frantic and insistent.
Ramona turned her head toward the window and her breath caught.
The fox was there, perched on the fire escape. Its front paws were against the glass, claws scraping, its pointed face pressed close. Its eyes were wide, almost panicked, reflecting the streetlight in twin points of gold. It was making small, distressed sounds — half whine, half keen — that Ramona could barely hear through the glass.
“It’s okay,” Ramona said quietly, not sure if she was talking to the fox or to Zara or to herself. “We’re okay.”
The fox stopped scratching. It stayed there, pressed against the window, but the frantic energy drained from its posture. It settled onto its haunches, head tilted, watching them with unblinking intensity.
Ramona felt that pull again — that recognition, that string around her ribs. The fox had felt something through whatever connection was trying to form. Had felt her fear. Had come.
They both watched the fox, which watched them right back. Standing guard. Or maybe just refusing to leave.
“It’s worried about you,” Zara said.
“Or it just wants food,” Ramona said, though she didn’t truly believe that.
Outside, the fox curled into itself slightly but didn’t close its eyes. Just kept watching through the window like it would stay there all night if necessary.
Ramona turned back to Zara and found her staring at the ceiling again, but her breathing was almost normal now. The trembling had ended. Her fingers had loosened their death grip on Ramona’s wrist into something closer to holding.
“Thank you,” Zara whispered. So quiet Ramona almost missed it.
“For what?”
“For waking me up. For being here.”
