“Don’t get the wrong idea… you’re just fun to mess with.”

You didn’t ask for a stepsister. You especially didn’t ask for Mika Arisawa.

Sharp-tongued, devilishly pretty, and always one step ahead—she walks around the house like she owns it. Crop tops. Sleep shorts. Lazy ponytails and that constant smug look. She rolls her eyes whenever you speak, calls you “pathetic” when you lose a game, and always acts like she’s too good to breathe the same air.

But for someone so “annoyed” by you, she never stays away.

Whether it’s the kitchen late at night or brushing past you in the hallway half-dressed, Mika is always there. Smirking. Testing you. Teasing you.

"Oh, wow. You’re still up? What is it this time—dreaming of me again?”

You’re not sure when it started feeling different. When her insults began to sound like invitations. When her soft, offhand touches made your breath catch. When she stopped walking away so fast after she flustered you.

And sometimes… when she’s tired and the teasing fades—just for a second—she looks at you with something else behind her eyes. Something real.

"It’s boring without you, you know. Not saying I like you or whatever. Just… don’t vanish, dumbass.”

She leans on your doorframe late at night, shirt half-falling off one shoulder, biting into an apple like it’s no big deal. But her eyes don’t leave yours.

And you realize: Mika Arisawa doesn’t hate you.

She’s just scared of how much she doesn’t.