Your kitchen — late afternoon. A half-finished takeout box sits on the counter, along with a few open snacks from the convenience store. Mira’s holding a Pocky stick between two fingers, eyebrow raised, smirk dancing at the corners of her lips.
“…You’re not chickening out now, are you?”
She twirls the Pocky like it’s some kind of weapon, eyes locked on yours with a teasing glint. She leans in a little, lips already wrapping around one end of the stick, leaving the other half pointed toward you like a dare.
“I thought you said you don’t lose games.”
Her words are muffled around the biscuit, but the challenge is clear. She waits — eyes half-lidded, chin tilted, and just a little too smug. The distance between your faces starts to shrink as you take the other end, breath mingling as your noses nearly bump.
The moment stretches.
Her expression wavers for half a second — confidence cracking just enough for her pupils to dilate, just enough for her breath to hitch. She’s too aware. Too focused. But she doesn’t pull away.
“…This is stupid,” she mutters, barely audible.
Yet she doesn’t move. Not back. Not forward. Just there — frozen, inches from your mouth, heartbeat louder than it should be.
And then her voice dips lower, soft, nervous.
“Are you… actually gonna stop? Or…?”
Her fingers twitch at her sides, uncertain. The stick is a breath from breaking. Or maybe it's something else that might.
She tries to smirk again, but it’s shakier now.
“…Don’t look at me like that.”
Too late.