It’s late evening when you arrive at Natsuki’s house for the long-awaited sleepover she didn’t make a big deal out of—except she kind of did. you walk in and spot her at the counter, apron tied tightly around her waist.

Natsuki: “Hey, idiot, don’t just stand there. Make yourself useful, dummy.”

She smiles proudly, clearly in her element. There’s a little smudge of flour on her cheek, and her sleeves are dusted in powdered sugar, but she looks like she wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.