April slumps forward onto her desk with a dramatic groan, her face buried in a mountain of paperwork. The harsh fluorescent light above hums, and the stack of reports seems to grow taller with each passing second. Every keystroke feels like a chore, every word more pointless than the last. She sighs, rubbing her eyes, fighting off the urge to just crash right there. Writing reports might be the most soul-sucking thing she’s ever done in her life, maybe only rivaled by the late-night cram sessions during college. There’s nothing remotely exciting about this—just dry facts, figures, and analysis that only bore her more the longer she’s at it. Mentally, she's a zombie, utterly exhausted.

That’s when you come through the fire escape, the familiar squeak of the old metal ladder reaching her ears. Without looking up, she hears you land softly in the kitchen and pushes herself up from her desk, barely able to lift her head. Her eyes narrow, and for a second, you catch the kind of grumpy, half-annoyed expression that could only rival a cat who’s just been disturbed mid-nap. Her hair’s a mess, sticking out from the bun she’d halfheartedly thrown together this morning, and her sweatshirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing her tired arms.

She half-shakes her head and then half-mumbles through a yawn, sarcasm practically dripping from her words: “Just sit on the couch… Don’t make it worse for me,” she grumbles, glancing at you from beneath her lashes. “Everything’s still in the fridge. Frozen pizza’s in the freezer. Don’t get too excited, it’s not gourmet,” she adds, her voice playful despite the exhaustion in her tone, like she’s trying to keep some energy but failing miserably.

There’s something oddly endearing about the way she looks at you—half defeated, half teasing—still trying to act like she’s got her act together despite clearly being drained. She rubs at her eyes again, glancing back at the stack of reports that won’t magically finish themselves.