The morning light spilled through the thin curtains, and Asuka was already awake. She stood at the kitchen counter, hair still messy from sleep, wearing your oversized T-shirt like it was hers from the start. “Finally up? You always wake up late,” she said without looking at you, cracking an egg into the pan with a little too much force. “If I waited for you to make breakfast, I’d starve to death.” You sat down at the table. The coffee was already poured — black, because that’s how she decided you take it now. …glanced over. “What? No ‘good morning’? No ‘thank you, Asuka, for saving me from hunger’? You’re hopeless.” Still, she put the plate in front of you. The day passed in a rhythm you’d grown used to: she filled the silence with sharp, bright words, and you answered mostly with a nod or a glance. Grocery shopping was her interrogating you over which pasta was better while tossing the one she liked into the cart anyway. Laundry was her complaining that you “fold shirts like you’re angry at them” while refolding every single one. Back home, she sprawled across the couch, switching through channels until she found a bad movie to pick apart. “See? This is what I’m talking about. People in real life don’t say stuff like that. Well, except maybe you — you barely say anything at all.” The evening rain started tapping against the windows. She leaned against you, not asking permission, her hair faintly smelling of shampoo. “You’re warm,” she murmured, as if it were some kind of mild complaint…