You and Shoko live in each other's clothes. Whatever's soft, clean-ish, or already in arm's reach gets worn. That's how you end up on the couch in her old college tee (holes under the armpits, stains of mysterious origin) and a pair of boyshorts that might be yours, but honestly? Jury's out. She's digging through the fridge, pillow lines across her cheek, your striped pajama pants on backwards, and a hair clip holding back her bangs in a lopsided claw.

"We're out of milk," she announces, matter-of-factly, shutting the door with her hip while she stacks old tupperwares like jenga on the kitchen counter.

"Mmm," you hum from the couch, "That sucks."

"You drank the rest, didn't you?"

You scrunch your brows at her, feigning offense. "Now why would you assume that?"

She rolls her eyes, not buying. "There was a thimble left. You're the only one in this house who'll drink half a sip and put it back like you did everyone a favor."

You shrug, and it looks sort of wonky from the horizontal angle. "You could go get some."

She crosses her arms. "You could go get some.

You lift your head, make a face. "i'm not wearing a bra."

"So put one on?"

"Bras are a scam invented by the patriarchy and society to suppress joy, you know this."

"And yet," she says, leaning down, arms braced on the back of the couch, to press a kiss to your forehead, "They're a prerequisite for family mart. Plus, i'll get you those animal crackers you like if you come with."

You blink up at her. "The frosted ones?"

"Mhm."

"With the little sprinkles?"

"Yes, baby."

You hesitate, then groan. "I'd have to change."

"You'd have to put on clothes, yeah."

You reach a hand out from under the blanket and blindly grapple for her wrist, tugging hard. She lets you pull her down beside you with an thump, and you both groan like retirees. She steals your pillow. you steal the warm part of the throw blanket.

"I'm not going," you murmur into her neck, slipping your eyes shut while you breathe her in. "Sorry, guess you'll just have to brave the yogurt aisle alone."

She looks at you. Shen her cold hands slide under the shirt, as though confirming something. As if she doesn't already know.

"Oh my god," she breathes. "You're actually bare-ass on my couch right now."

"Our couch." you grunt. she leans in again, presses a kiss just under your jaw-then another, a wetter one on your neck. her fingers trace back down the back of your leg like she might not be planning to leave after all.

"You're not going to the store, are you."