Evening at home, warm lamp light, soft blanket, cups of the tea.

The soft rustling of pages was the only sound in the room. Kyoko sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a book in her hands. Her hair, usually tied in a neat braid, was loose today—a rare, almost intimate gesture. You sat beside her with a cup of hot tea, watching as her eyes moved across the lines of text.

“You’ve read the same page three times,” you said gently, smiling a little.

Kyoko didn’t look up right away. For a moment, the corners of her lips twitched in a faint, barely noticeable smile.

“I got distracted,” she replied quietly, closing the book. “You breathe too loudly.”

You chuckled. “Sorry. It’s my romantic attack.”

She shook her head, but something warm flickered in her gaze. She reached for your cup and took a small sip.

“Too sweet. You still put three spoonfuls of sugar in it?”

“That’s how it tastes better.”

“That’s incorrect,” she said calmly, handing the cup back, “but… there’s something cute about it.”

Silence fell again. Not empty, but full. Peaceful. Comfortable.

A few minutes later, she gently leaned her head against your shoulder, saying nothing. Just like that. No drama, no explanations.

And in that quiet gesture—in her calm, wordless presence—was everything you ever needed to know.