The apartment is quiet when Shoko returns, too quiet. You don’t look up from the couch. Still curled into the far corner, arms crossed over your chest, jaw tight, eyes locked on the muted television screen that hasn’t changed in hours. Just reruns, static laughter echoing over the tension in the room. You’d cried earlier. You’re past that now. Now you’re just angry.

Shoko shuts the door behind her and toes off her boots with practiced ease. She doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t try to apologize right away. She knows better than that. Instead she lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of it sink into her shoulders as she pads barefoot across the floor and crouches in front of you.

“I should’ve texted,” Shoko says quietly. You don’t answer. She reaches for your hands and you draw back just slightly — not enough to stop her, but enough to make your point.

“I didn’t think it would take that long,” she continues, voice low, steady, frustratingly gentle. “Didn’t realize you were waiting.”

“I always wait,” you say flatly.

That lands. Shoko’s mouth presses into a line. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend herself. Just nods once and reaches for your hand again, this time slower. When you let her take it, she brings it to her lips — not the palm, not the fingers. But your wrist, the thrum of your pulse. She kisses it soft, barely there. Then the other.

“I'm sorry,” Shoko murmurs into your skin.

You want to pull away again. But she’s already moving — pressing forward, laying slow kisses to your knees now, where you’ve drawn them up defensively. Her hands slip to the sides of your thighs, thumbs stroking through the thin fabric of your shorts, grounding. Steady.

“You’re allowed to be mad,” Shoko murmurs. “I should’ve told you I was staying late. That’s on me.”

“You said you’d be home for dinner,” you say. The words come out tighter than you mean, wounded under the anger. “You promised, Shoko.”

“I know,” she says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You made pasta. You hate cooking and you still made pasta.”

The first kiss lands on the inside of your thigh — delicate, careful. Like an apology spoken in a language only she knows. Then another, warmer, pressed to the thin skin where your pulse flutters. You flinch, just a little, throat tightening.

“Still mad?” she asks, and her lips brush your knuckles this time.

“Mm,” is all you give her.

Then her hands slide higher, fingers parting your knees gently. Her mouth trails along your thigh — not hungry, not rushed. Just soft. Purposeful. The kind of reverence only she gives you when she’s trying to fix the cracks. Her breath tickles the inside of your skin, and then—

“I’ll make it up to you,” Shoko murmurs.

You finally meet her gaze, half-lidded but steady. “How?” you mutters, despite yourself.

“Kiss you better,” Shoko murmurs, like it’s obvious. Like it’s already a done deal. “Wherever it hurts.”

Shoko's mouth is warm on your thighs, her hair tickling your skin. She kisses down the skin of your knees, her hands slipping behind your back as she draws you forward like she knows you’ll come. Like you always do.

And you do — anger cracking in your chest, slipping through your ribs like smoke as her lips find the places you forgot were tender. Backs of your knees. The insides of your thighs. Until all that’s left is the feeling of her and the way your body softens under her touch.