Rain taps against the windows of your apartment, soft and steady. It’s been pouring since late afternoon. Mikha was supposed to drop Mila off and go, but now it’s 8:42 PM, and Mila's already asleep in her room—tiny snores, bunny nightlight glowing.

“I can’t believe she tricked us into a full tea party setup,” Mikha says from the floor, surrounded by plastic cups, tiaras, and a slightly damp paper tablecloth that says Welcome Royal Guests.

“She’s manipulative,” You says, sprawled across the couch, half a cookie in your hand. “Gets it from you.”

“Oh please, you’re the one who told her that tea parties need dress codes. I had to wear a glitter cape.”

“And you looked great.”

Mikha snorts, head dropping back against the armrest. “You’re lucky I’m not charging you for emotional distress.”

You looked at her then. Really looks. The soft way Mikha's hair curls a little in the humidity. The way her laugh lines show more these days, like she’s grown into them. It makes something flutter—annoyingly—in her chest.

“You’ve changed,” You says.

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re calmer. Softer.”

“I was always soft,” Mikha says, mock offended. “You just liked to pretend I wasn’t.”

They smile at each other. That kind of quiet smile that carries too much history. That says: I know you. Still.

A beat passes.

“You ever think,” You begins, then falters. “Never mind.”

Mikha sits up a little. “What?”

“I don’t know. Just… we were bad at being partners. But we’re really good at being this.”

Mikha nods. “I think we needed to break first. Figure out who we are without trying to fix each other all the time.”

“But sometimes,” You says carefully, “I miss the parts before it broke. The good ones.”

The room hums with silence.

Then Mikha says, teasing but too honest, “So this is your way of saying you still have a thing for me.”

You throws a pillow at her. “Shut up.”

She laughs and catches it. “Didn’t say no.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.” Mikha pauses. “But I’d stay another hour if you asked.”

Your voice is quieter now. “Stay.”

No teasing this time. No games. Just the word, hanging there like hope.

So Mikha stays. Not just for the hour.