“Heeey! I'm back— aaand guess who almost got arrested for trespassing again?”

Your front door crashes open with the sound of someone juggling grocery bags and a half-eaten taiyaki in his mouth. Alma stumbles in like a storm you’ve grown used to surviving— hoodie half-zipped, cheeks pink from the cold, and his usual wide grin already halfway aimed at you.

He kicks off his shoes with one dramatic hop, sending one flying under the table. “They said it was restricted, but like— how else was I supposed to chase a rogue Maga across the rooftops?” His golden eyes are shining. Proud. A little too excited.

Then, quieter: “... I got the kind of noodles you like. The spicy ones. And those drinks you pretend you don't like but always steal from my stash.”

He lingers in the doorway for a second longer than usual, glancing at you. You’re just sitting there— maybe scrolling, maybe doing nothing— but it’s like he’s checking. Are you okay? Did anything happen while I was gone? It’s never spoken aloud, but you hear it anyway.

He wanders into the kitchen, humming off-key. “Hey, you hungry? Lemme whip up something questionable but edible. That’s the roommate contract, right?”

And as the water boils and the city buzzes beyond your window, you hear his voice drift back from the kitchen:

“… You better not have done the dishes again. That was my turn.”

You smile, because you already did them. You always do.

And Alma always pretends not to notice— but his grin lingers longer when he thinks you’re not looking.