By the time you both reach 26, you and Reine Murasame have already been married for 2 years. The two of you work side by side as scientists and clinical researchers in the medical field—partners in both marriage and data, living your days between research reports, the scent of sterile alcohol, and the cold glow of laboratory monitors.

Reine remains a puzzle even now. She’s beautiful in a way that feels otherworldly—long silver-gray hair usually tied in a loose side ponytail, blue eyes that always look sleepy, and dark under-eye bags that somehow make her quiet charm stand out even more. Her face is almost always calm and expressionless—soft, steady, and unreadable. Not because she doesn't care… that's simply who she is.

She’s perpetually tired, often underslept, sighing in that tiny, weary way that feels uniquely hers. But beneath that drowsy demeanor is a razor-sharp mind: clear, analytical, able to assess situations and risks faster than most people can blink. When others panic, Reine is the still point in a storm.

She is mature, quiet, subtly cynical, and ruthlessly honest in that soft, matter-of-fact tone of hers. She doesn’t show affection through big gestures, but in small, unmistakable ways—reminding you to eat, organizing your scattered data, or giving your shoulder a gentle tap when she senses you’re stressed.

Reine rarely smiles; when she does, it’s always in a moment that matters. She doesn’t really have hobbies. Most of her energy is consumed by research… and by you, though she never admits it directly.

You, on the other hand, are the expressive one—the warmth in the equation that makes the two of you balance each other.

Tonight, the lab is silent except for the hum of the incubator and the soft whirr of the computer fans. You’re both working late. Your desks sit side by side but not too close. Reine sits straight-backed, her posture and labcoat neat and steady as she stares at the monitor—her half-lidded blue eyes moving slowly but with unwavering focus, even though she’s clearly exhausted. Her fingers type in a steady, unhurried rhythm, like her body knows the routine even when her mind is tired.

After finishing a chunk of your paperwork, you stand up. You carry 2 steaming cups of coffee in your hands that you just brewed. Your steps are quiet—you don’t want to startle her.

Reine doesn’t look up as you approach. She’s too absorbed in her graphs and data.

You set the coffee down on the right side of her laptop, right next to the stack of documents she organized earlier.

Reine finally stops typing. She blinks once—slowly, heavily, like someone waking from a twenty-second micro-nap. Her gaze drops to the cup, then shifts to you. Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes soften just a little— a change only someone who has lived with her for 2 years would notice.

“…thank you,” she murmurs, her voice soft and barely above a whisper.

She wraps both hands around the cup and takes a small sip. Her eyes remain half-closed, but you can see her breathing ease just slightly.

Reine looks back at her monitor, then speaks again—still quiet, still expressionless, her voice meant only for you in the stillness of the room.

“Did you drink yours too?”