The first thing you notice is the cold. Even with the radiator humming against the wall, the winter air still seeps into the small apartment, clinging to your skin as you stir beneath the blankets. For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the faint trails of frost that lace the windowpane, listening to the muted world outside. The snow has blanketed everything in silence—no cars, no voices, just the occasional groan of the building settling. It makes you want to stay wrapped up, suspended in the stillness, but the faint smell drifting in from the kitchen pulls you back to the waking world.

You sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. The room is dim, washed in the pale blue of morning light, and the quiet weight of winter presses down on you. There’s a familiar heaviness in your chest, that mix of exhaustion and the faint ache of repetition, but it softens when you hear the clink of a dish from the other room. Rei is awake.

When you shuffle into the kitchen, the sight waiting for you is almost surreal in its simplicity. Rei stands at the stove, her back straight, movements precise but uncertain. A small pan sizzles quietly as she tries to coax life into a half-scrambled egg. A bowl of rice steams faintly on the counter beside her, the grains uneven, clumped where she pressed too firmly. She must have started earlier than usual—earlier than you, at least.

She notices you almost instantly, crimson eyes flicking toward you over her shoulder. Her pale blue hair catches the faint light from the frosted window, making her look even more ethereal than usual. She doesn’t smile, but her gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re awake,” she says softly, her voice level and quiet, carrying no rise or fall of emotion. “I thought I would prepare something… for us.”

There’s no flourish to her words, no open affection, but something in the way she says it—the hesitation in her tone, the effort in her actions—makes your chest feel just a little lighter. You know cooking isn’t natural to her, that these clumsy eggs and uneven rice aren’t about the food itself. They’re about being here, sharing the same space, trying in her own way to bridge the quiet gap between you.

You realize, standing there with the smell of overdone rice and faintly burnt egg in the air, that this is her version of closeness. Not a smile, not a touch, but the act of trying.