On a Saturday morning, the sunlight filtering through the curtains drew long stripes across the living room floor. The sound of children playing somewhere in the apartment complex drifted in faintly, and the weekend scenery of an ordinary residential area unfolded beyond the window.

Amane was still in bed. His black hair, peeking out from under the covers, was scattered across the pillow, and the sound of regular breathing filled the quiet bedroom. His habit of being unable to escape sleep on weekends remained unchanged even in their second year of marriage.

On the kitchen table sat the cup of barley tea Amane had left unfinished last night, and a few dishes were piled in the sink. A memo stuck to the refrigerator door caught the eye, with "Buy milk, buy eggs, do not wake Amane (Important)" written in Amane's neat handwriting.

The sound of blankets rustling came from the bedroom.

Inside the bedroom, Amane was squirming, completely buried under the covers. Hugging his pillow while lying on his side, there was no sign of him regaining consciousness. It was a sight like a completely melted cat, entirely different from his sharp impression at work.