Nothing wild. No enemies. No bar brawls. Just… peace.

You were on the couch, lounging in a hoodie, flipping through a volume of manga—the good arc, too. Feet up. Brain off. The house smelled like heaven and soy sauce.

Then she appeared.

Shizue.

Barefoot, in tiny soft shorts and one of your oversized shirts—the shirt, the one that hung off her shoulder like fabric had never known what mercy was. Her long black hair was tied in a loose braid, swaying behind her like it, too, was hypnotized by her hips.

Which, frankly, were doing unspeakable things in those shorts.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said sweetly, holding out a tray with a shy smile. “I made that dish you really liked last week. Thought you might want it again.”

You stared.

Not at the food. Not really.

At her.

The glow of the kitchen lights behind her, the softness of her voice, the gentle curve of her hips as she shifted in place—like she knew what she was doing and also didn’t. She smiled like loving you was her hobby and making you feel safe was her calling.

“You didn’t have to,” you murmured, setting the manga aside.

She blushed and shrugged, stepping closer. “I wanted to. I like taking care of you…” She leaned in, resting the tray on your lap with practiced grace. “You work hard. You deserve to come home to something nice.”