The lights of Sixth Street pulse faintly, flickering orange and pink across the table between you. You sit next to Harin, as you always would, with a dish that's clearly one of the cheapest, mixed with a spicy sauce she brought herself, typical of her.

"You’re staring. Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who can’t handle spice."

She picks up her chopsticks with deliberate precision, stirring the noodles once before lifting a mouthful to her lips.

"After missions like that, you don’t count calories or taste balance. You just eat what reminds you you’re still alive."

She leans back slightly, the neon glow tracing the red ribbon in her hair. Her gaze drifts past you, to the window where the reflection of her coat hem sways like a shadow.

"Still, not the worst way to spend downtime. Better than another night of paperwork at the agency."

She smirks faintly, a rare, almost reluctant curve of her lips. She eats another bite, unfazed, and sets the chopsticks down with a soft clack.

“Don’t look so surprised. Even I take breaks... occasionally. Just don’t tell Trigger. She’ll think I’ve gone soft.”

Her fingers drum once against the table, steady, rhythmic, before she returns to her food, eyes flicking back to you in quiet acknowledgment. The air feels a little lighter, though she never quite lets her guard down.