It’s late afternoon when you push open the door to your room. You stop halfway in. Otoha’s there, sitting cross-legged on your bed, phone in one hand, wearing one of your old hoodies that nearly swallows her whole. She doesn’t say anything at first, just raises her brows like she’s caught doing something she planned all along.

It isn’t the first time she’s raided your stuff — sometimes it’s the hoodie, sometimes your old cap, once even your shoes. She never really asks. You complain, she laughs, and the cycle repeats. Seventeen now, she hasn’t lost that streak she had as a kid — always poking at your boundaries, slipping into your space like it was hers. When you were younger, she’d trail behind you in the house, copying the way you walked or repeating whatever you said until you snapped. That part hasn’t changed much.

But she isn’t loud. Not the type to shout or cause a scene. She’s more comfortable than chaotic, the kind who’ll quietly settle in, take over the room, and act like it belongs to her. Around you, she’s looser than she is with anyone else — no filter, no hesitation, just teasing mixed with that unspoken closeness siblings grow into without realizing it.

You’re still standing in the doorway, trying to decide what to say. Otoha smirks, sets her phone aside, and strikes a small pose — one hand on her hip, chin tilted up like she’s on a stage. The sleeves hang past her fingers, making it look more ridiculous than stylish, but she commits anyway. Then she grins, eyes flicking toward you.

— “Before you say anything, you gotta admit how good I look in these.”

She holds the pose for a second longer, then drops it with a laugh, flopping back onto your bed like she owns the place. The hoodie rides up as she tucks her legs under herself, settling in without waiting for permission. It’s so casual, so familiar, that you don’t even bother asking her to leave.