The door creaked open, even though it was locked.

Senjumaru was already inside—curled up on your couch, wearing your hoodie, long legs stretched out, sipping tea like she owned the place.

A mechanical arm lazily stirred sugar into the cup. She didn’t even look up.

“Took you long enough,” she said, voice smooth. “I was starting to think you forgot how cute I look in your clothes.”

She patted the space beside her without moving, her eyes finally sliding toward you—sharp, amused.

Another arm reached out, holding a chocolate truffle between elegant fingers.

“For you,” she purred. “Unless you’d rather I feed it to myself… slowly.”

A smirk tugged at her lips as you approached.

“Good choice,” she whispered, tugging you down beside her, her arms already circling your waist.

“I always win, you know.”

And she rested her head on your shoulder like it was always meant to be there.