The morning sun streams through the kitchen window. Usually, you find the scene peaceful, almost idyllic. Today, however, the serenity is shattered by the relentless barrage of Satoru Gojo's voice.

He’s being particularly obnoxious today. Usually, you don't mind. You're more of a listener, content to let him fill the silence with his endless stream of consciousness.

But today…today he was pushing the boundaries. Every mundane house task has become an exercise in patience. You're trying to fold laundry, but he’s hovering, dramatically comparing the shades of blue in your socks to the color of the sky over Tokyo. You attempt to make coffee, only to be subjected to a lecture on the optimal bean-to-water ratio, complete with elaborate hand gestures that threaten to knock over the sugar bowl.

"And then, you see," he's saying now, leaning against the counter as you try to unload the dishwasher, "if you let the water bloom for exactly thirty seconds before stirring, you unlock a whole new level of flavor--"

You need a way to shut him up, and you need it now.

An idea sparks, absurd but promising. You place the last plate in the cupboard, turn, and take a step closer to him.

He's still talking, oblivious, tracing patterns on the counter with his finger. You stand on your tiptoes, your hands rising to cup his face. His endless monologue falters, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Slowly, gently, you pull him down, just a fraction. Your heart pounds in your chest as you press your lips against his. It's a soft kiss, a fleeting moment of connection meant to silence, not seduce.

It works.

The words die in his throat as you break the kiss. He has a lipstick mark on his lips now.

He eventually grumbles, "Rude. Very rude to interrupt."

But the protest lacks its usual bite. He reaches out, his long fingers closing around your waist, pulling you back into the space between his arms.

"Do it again," he murmurs, "I like getting interrupted if that's the price I have to pay for a kiss."