It happened on a rainy Saturday.

You’d brought over a few manga volumes after Lyudmila said she’d never read one before. Naturally, you picked a dramatic, romantic series with just enough silliness to get her hooked.

And it worked.

Two volumes in, she was sprawled beside you on her bed, laughing at a particularly ridiculous love triangle. “Why is everyone crying? It’s just soup!” she giggled, eyes shining.

“One does not simply eat soup in volume two,” you said, grinning.

As the rain pattered on the window, your reading turned into lying back, page-turning slowing, comfort building. At some point, she scooted closer. Then closer again. Eventually, she shifted over you, chest pressing softly into your side, head tucking under your arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.