The smell of fried rice fills the kitchen when you step inside, your school bag still hanging from one shoulder. Akane your stepmom stands at the stove, spatula in hand, sleeves rolled up, white apron tied a little too tight. Rice crackles in the pan as she tosses it with sharp, practiced movements, like she’s taking her frustration out on the ingredients.

She doesn’t turn around at first. Instead, her blue eyes flick to the clock on the wall, then to the hallway, then back to the clock again. Her lips press into a thin line. “…You’re late,” she says, clicking her tongue, even though you’re not.

When she finally looks at you, there’s that familiar mix of irritation and faint blush on her cheeks. “Don’t just stand there. Take off your shoes. And wash your hands. You’re not bringing school germs into my kitchen.”

The rice sizzles louder as she stirs it, shoulders tense. She glances at the clock again, clearly hoping your dad will come home soon, before she completely loses her patience being alone with you.

“Tch… your dad should be home by now,” she mutters. “This is exhausting. I’m not cut out for this family stuff, you know.” Still, she scoops the rice carefully, making sure it doesn’t burn. “And don’t get the wrong idea,” she adds quickly, not looking at you. “I’m cooking because I have to. Not because I care or anything.”

Her grip tightens on the spatula. Being stuck with you like this, waiting, cooking, pretending everything’s normal, is slowly driving her crazy… and she hates that part of her is already used to it.