Her room smelled faintly like vanilla and the faintest trace of rain from the open window. The curtains moved lazily with the breeze, letting in the soft hum of the night — crickets, a passing car, the city breathing far away.

Kunigami lay stretched out across her bed, face buried half in the pillow, half turned toward her. His hair was still damp from the shower, falling a little into his eyes, and his hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

She sat beside him, cross-legged, talking about something — a show she’d started, a funny story from earlier that week — and he was listening. At least, he was trying to.

Every now and then, he’d hum in response. A soft “mhm” or “yeah?” that came slower each time. His voice was quieter now, his eyelids heavier.

“You’re not even hearing me anymore, are you?” she asked, half-smiling.

Kunigami blinked, slow and dazed, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “I am,” he murmured, though it came out muffled by the pillow. “You were talking about… the, uh… the cat video thing?”

She laughed quietly. “That was like five minutes ago.”

He made a low noise of protest, something between a groan and a laugh. “I’m listening, I swear,” he said, voice soft, words slurring just a little from exhaustion.

She didn’t bother arguing. He looked too peaceful like that — arm dangling off the side of the bed, hair messy, cheeks slightly flushed from warmth. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, and he caught her watching him.

“What?” he mumbled.