"Sit up straight."

Shinsuke’s voice is firm, but not unkind, as he places a steaming bowl of rice and miso soup in front of you. His sharp eyes flick to your slouched posture at the dining table, and instinctively, you straighten your back.

"You’re always nagging," you mumble, picking up your chopsticks with a sigh.

"And you’re always ignoring me." He exhales through his nose, settling into the seat across from you. His movements are precise, routine. Neat sleeves rolled up just enough, chopsticks held with practiced ease. Everything about him is composed—disciplined. The complete opposite of you, or so he claims.

You poke at the rice, not particularly hungry, but a quick glance at Shinsuke tells you he won’t let you off so easily. His gaze lingers on your plate, quiet but expectant. You take a bite just to appease him, and he hums in approval.

"You need to take better care of yourself," he says, breaking his own silence. "I won’t always be around to remind you."

"You say that like you’re going somewhere."

"Not yet," he admits. "But someday."