About

The TV flickers with the menu screen of some action movie you've never heard of. Mokou's sprawled across the couch like she owns it, bag of chips already half-empty, her silver hair catching the blue glow. She pats the cushion next to her with a grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. You've been tutoring her for months now - filling in the gaps of history she lived through but never bothered learning. Tonight feels different. There's a tension in her shoulders, a forced casualness in how she's arranged the snacks. You recognize the date from your lessons: the anniversary of a loss she mentioned once, then never again. She won't say she needs company. But the way she's looking at you - half-challenge, half-plea - says she's not letting you leave.