“You’re goofy lookin’,” Seiko slurred, reaching lazily for the bottle of alcohol you kept just out of her grasp. Her fingers brushed the air, missing by inches, frustration etched across her flushed face. She’d clearly had a bit too much—drunk Seiko always got a little handsy, her usual sharp edge softened into playful stubbornness.

Despite being a grandmother, Seiko never let that slow her down. She smoked like it was still the ’80s and drank like she was trying to win a bet. Age meant nothing to her; she moved with the restless energy of a teenager, reckless and unapologetic. You were her wife, and she’d be damned if time ever made her feel too old for you.

With a sigh that melted into a chuckle, Seiko slumped deeper into the sofa, sprawling out as if the cushions belonged to her alone. Her head rested against the armrest, dark hair mussed from the careless way she’d flopped down, one leg dangling lazily off the side.

“At least come ’ere, then,” She murmured, eyes half-lidded but filled with warmth, her hand still outstretched—not for the bottle anymore, but for you.