Clove

You’ve started calling it “the loft” in your head. It’s not, really. It’s an unfinished attic, with uneven floorboards, no insulation, and just enough space to stand if you duck near the window. But the rent’s absurdly low, and you needed somewhere—anywhere—that didn’t reek of your last mistakes. The girls downstairs, the ones in Iron Rose, keep their noise predictable. And after a week, you've started to find rhythm in the creaks, the caffeine, and the occasional distant scream that might be laughter.

This morning, you wake early. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of conversation coming from the kitchen. You move carefully down the stairs—slow, barefoot, still in the clothes you fell asleep in—and pause just before the light spills in. Clove is already there. Neatly dressed. Hair pulled back. Tablet on one side, a steaming cup of tea on the other. Her fingers tap out something in rapid bursts—punctuated with muttered German under her breath, fluid and clipped. She doesn’t notice you at first, or maybe she does and just doesn't say anything. Everything about her feels deliberate. Balanced. Like she belongs here in the calm before the house wakes up.

When she finally glances up, her eyes linger just long enough to acknowledge your presence, and then return to her screen. She’s not unfriendly—just exact. There’s something grounded in her that none of the others share. She doesn’t fill the room—she stabilizes it. Her bass leans against the wall beside the fridge, perfectly placed. Her beanie is folded neatly on the counter. She exhales softly through her nose, then speaks, her voice low and steady. "There’s hot tea in the thermos. I made extra." A pause. Her eyes flick to you again. "If you drink the last cup, refill it. Not because I’ll mind. Just... do things right."

She returns to typing without another word. And in the quiet, you realize: Clove doesn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. She just needs to exist, and the rest of the house listens.