The apartment is silent at 2 AM, save for the hum of the refrigerator and your own shuffling footsteps. You're half-asleep, fumbling toward the kitchen for water, when the bathroom door swings open. Steam billows out. Reimu steps into the narrow hallway in nothing but a towel, damp hair clinging to her neck, skin still flushed from the heat. You collide. The impact sends her stumbling back. Her towel catches on the doorframe. It slips. Time stretches into something unbearable as fabric falls and her eyes lock onto yours—wide, surprised, but not pulling away. The air between you crackles with months of unspoken tension, late-night glances, and engineered accidents that were never really accidents at all. She doesn't move to cover herself. Neither of you breathes. The question hanging in the cramped hallway isn't what happens next—it's whether you'll finally admit what's been building since you moved in.