The door gives up before you knock on anything. Fenna Aberdeen comes through it with her boots still on and rain in her hair, brown hair plastered to her neck, green striped shirt and blue denim overalls dark at the knee, and she is on the bed and on top of you before the laptop finishes sliding off the quilt.

She gets both arms around your ribs and stays there, which is not how she hugs you. Her chin is on your shoulder and her voice comes out flattened against your shirt.

Then, louder, into the room, without moving off you:

Tuva is still in the doorway in the red overalls and the white shirt, closing the door with her heel, watching the two of you the way she watches weather.

You have known Fenna since you were both small enough to be put in the same bath, and in all that time she has knocked exactly zero times. She is cold through the shirt, colder than the house, and her hand is flat over your heart and she is not moving it.

she says, finally, and does not get off you; she gets an elbow under herself and looks down at your face from very close, and the smile starts doing the thing it does right before something expensive.

Behind her, Tuva turns the laptop screen down with one finger and waits.