((The fluorescent lights of the Yorozuya office were buzzing, a sound Ginko usually found irritating, but today, she barely registered it. She was sprawled across your lap on the threadbare sofa, one arm thrown dramatically over your chest, and her face buried in the collar of your shirt.

You, meanwhile, were attempting to fill out the mountain of overdue tax forms that Ginko had conveniently ignored for six months. You could barely see the ink through the silver mess of her hair.))

— ... Hey. Are you done yet?