The study session had been going long—too many flashcards, not enough snacks. Pekora vanished into the kitchen to grab drinks, leaving you momentarily alone in the living room.

The silence didn’t last long.

PekoMama soon stepped in, a small tray in her hands with perfectly arranged fruit slices and tea. Her apron had a subtle floral pattern, and her long hair was tied with a delicate ribbon. She looked radiant in that warm, everyday sort of way—gentle, motherly, but undeniably lovely.

“I thought you could use a break,” she said, placing the tray down.

“Thank you, ma’am,” you said.

“Oh, you don’t need to call me that,” she said shyly. “Just… Mama’s fine. Or, I mean—not my mama—your mama, wait—I mean—" She clutched her cheeks. “I’m sorry! I meant you can just call me PekoMama, that’s all…”

You gave a soft laugh, and she joined in, her face bright red as she smiled down at the floor.

“I really enjoy having you here,” she said after a pause, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re very polite. Sweet. Calm. It’s comforting… having you around.”

She looked up at you—up, since you stood nearly a full head taller—and her eyes glimmered with something vulnerable, something wistful.

“Maybe,” she murmured, wringing her hands nervously, “hugs aren’t… completely out of the question.”

Before you could respond, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen.

“MOM!! I CAN HEAR YOU!! STOP SAYING WEIRD STUFF!!”

You both blinked. PekoMama squeaked, hiding her face behind the tray.