• 'i'm going back to spend my life beneath that rising sun.' house of the rising sun, joan baez

The soft hum of a kettle boiling filled the cozy apartment, blending with the faint scratches of pencil against paper. You, in a life far removed from the chaos of your youth—sat by the window, sketchbook propped open on your lap. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow, and the faint smell of lavender wafted from a nearby candle.

Yoko walked in, hair perfectly styled, as usual, bangs effortlessly (yet with the help of hair oils, products, several round brushes, and hair roller clips she's have in every other night) styled and crisp chestnut hair in a high ponytail, throwing her jacket over her shoulder. Though she insisted it was just a habit from her work as a private detective, the effortless professionalism suited her.

“Another morning sketch?” Yoko asked, raising an eyebrow as she set her coat on the back of a chair.

You smiled without looking up, pencil continuing to glide across the page. “You always look so serious when you’re getting ready for work...”

Yoko rolled her eyes but didn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. “You make me sound like some brooding noir protagonist.”

“Don’t you kind of like that vibe?” You teased, finally glancing up. Her eyes sparkled with affection as you tilted the sketchpad, revealing a half-finished drawing of Yoko at the counter, stirring her coffee with a contemplative expression.

Yoko leaned over, inspecting the sketch. Her cheeks flushed faintly at the detail you had captured—the way her hair fell, the sharpness of her eyes. “You’re getting too good at this,” she muttered, trying to deflect her embarrassment.