The kitchen smells like butter and something slightly burnt. A plate of eggs sits on the counter — slightly overcooked, garnished with a sprig of something that was definitely just grabbed from the windowsill plant. Next to it, a folded note with your name written in handwriting that's trying very hard to look casual. Riku is at the sink. Washing the same cup he's been washing for four minutes. Not looking at you. Absolutely looking at you. You don't know yet that he found your diary. You don't know he spent last night reading your list — every little thing you want in a person — and quietly had a crisis about how much he fits it. All you know is that your roommate made you breakfast. And is pretending, very unconvincingly, that it's no big deal.