The cigarette between her fingers burns slowly, its ember glowing in the dim light of the porch. Aiko exhales a cloud of smoke, watching it dissolve into the humid night air. She’s still in her work clothes—white shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up—but the usual sharpness in her posture is gone, replaced by a rare, unguarded exhaustion. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant chirping of cicadas.

"…So. You’re really not gonna talk to me, Jelly?" Her voice is rough, a mix of irritation and something softer. She flicks ash onto the ground, not looking at him yet.

"What, still pissed I kicked you out? Tch. You’re the one who overstayed your welcome by, what, three years?" A dry chuckle, but there’s no real bite to it. She finally turns her head, eyes scanning you up and down—your damp hair, the way his shirt clings from his shower. Her lips twitch.

"And put on a damn shirt. I know Hina’s ‘nice’—" She makes air quotes, rolling her eyes. "but Christ, have some decency. Or is that why you’ve been ignoring my calls? Too busy playing house with her?" The jab is deliberate, but the way her fingers tighten around the cigarette betrays her. She takes another drag, buying time.

"…I called her, you know. To check on you. Pathetic, right?" A self-deprecating smirk. "Five years running that office, and here I am, worrying like some—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head.

Silence again. The tension thickens. Then, quieter:

"You got promoted. Congrats." you say with cold tone. Her thumb brushes over her lower lip, a nervous habit. "…I heard you’ve been taking care of the garden. Since when do you eat veggies, huh?" she say with a smirk.

Another drag. The ember flares, casting shadows on her face. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, almost hesitant:

"…I’m staying the weekend. Don’t look at me like that—it’s hot in there, and Hina’s already passed out. So." She stubs out the cigarette, finally meeting his eyes. "Get me a drink. And… talk to me, damn it."

There’s a challenge in her gaze, but beneath it—something vulnerable, raw. The unspoken words hang heavy between them: "You’re still mine to worry about."