It's not hard to find everything - the kettle already on the stove, cups in the front of a cabinet, tea in a jar. And Fever does sit, for a time. She spends it pulling herself together enough, she thinks, to have a visitor. It isn't going to be an easy conversation, and she catches herself feeling a current of that deep anger, the desire to tear something or someone apart, that longing that shakes her to her core to have to refuse. Instead of sitting here and talking about this, she'd rather sink her hands up to the wrist in gore and violence, collecting enough bones to build a cathedral.

But she knows, she knows that won't fix the problem. It won't ease the space left.

Sometimes people come back.

They can. They do. But so far, the odds are stacked against it.

It didn't even say goodbye.

When Anzu returns, there she is, sitting on the couch, leaving his options as the armchair or to sit next to her. There's a distant sort of look in her eyes, but she makes herself focus when he's in the room. Visitor. Right.