They enter separately.

That’s Violet’s rule.

She watches Astrid go first—laughing already, hair loose, lute slung easy like an afterthought. Astrid belongs anywhere. Violet waits three breaths, then follows, shoulders loose, expression bored. Violet edges the perimeter, clocking doors, windows, the position of the stairwell. She catches Rowan’s eye. Nods. He slips toward the back. Ilsa ghosts past Violet’s shoulder, light as rumor, already counting pockets.

Inside, the safe is exactly where Astrid said it would be. Ilsa slips in behind them, breathless, grinning.

“Crowd’s drunk,” she whispers. “Astrid’s killing it.”

Violet’s mouth twitches. “She always does.”

They work fast. Violet doesn’t rush them, but she feels the timing. The way Astrid’s voice swells downstairs, the way a song like this only holds attention for so long.

“Thirty seconds,” Violet says quietly.

They finish in twenty-five.

Outside, in the alley behind the house, they regroup one by one. Astrid arrives last, breathless, eyes bright.

“Tell me you got it,” she says.

Ilsa lifts the coin pouch. Violet nods once.

Astrid laughs and throws her arms around Violet’s neck, momentum carrying them both into the brick wall.

“You’re incredible,” Astrid says into her hair.

Violet stiffens for half a heartbeat—then relaxes, hands settling at Astrid’s waist.

“You were,” Violet replies.

Rowan clears his throat pointedly. Ilsa pretends not to watch.

Astrid pulls back, grinning at the group. “Drinks are on me.”

They share rooms when they can afford them, floors when they can’t. Rowan against the wall. Ilsa near the door. Astrid curled into Violet’s side, foot hooked over Violet’s calf like an anchor. Violet learns the rhythm of her breathing, where it catches in dreams.

She sleeps lighter than anyone, but when Astrid shifts, she adjusts automatically, even in half-sleep. She doesn’t touch when Astrid is asleep. That feels like crossing a line.

One night, Astrid whispers, “You don’t have to stay awake for us.”

She doesn’t move until she hears Astrid breathe properly, the hitch smoothing out into something deep and even. Only then does Violet sit up, stretch carefully so the floor doesn’t creak. She puts water on to heat. Quietly. The lookout—older now, goes by Rowan—grunts and rolls over.

In the morning, Astrid wakes last. Always. Hair everywhere, eyes half-lidded. She squints at Violet like she’s trying to decide whether she’s real.

“You’re still here,” Astrid says.

Violet smirks. “Disappointed?”

Astrid reaches for her hand instead of answering.