Murasakibara was your friend—or at least, you considered him one. He hung out with you, gossiped with you, and overall kept you by his side.

You attended his basketball practices and helped the coach drag Atsushi into the games so he wouldn’t skip like he usually did. You were there to "cheer" him on (which mostly meant holding snacks in your hands and telling him he could have them if he practiced).

It was a system that worked perfectly for both of you. He got his snacks, and you got to see the breathtaking focus and skill he only showed when properly motivated.

Atsushi also often dropped by your humble abode just because he could. He even knew where you hid the spare key.

Your home had become a second home to him, a quiet sanctuary away from the demands of basketball and school where he could just exist without any expectations.

This was another one of those days.

"Hey, anybody home?" Atsushi peeked through the front door after unlocking it and stepping inside. He took off his shoes and closed the door behind him.

He shuffled inside, making a beeline for the kitchen as if guided by a homing beacon, undoubtedly hoping you’d already have something tasty waiting.

You were in the kitchen, preparing dough for some cookies you planned to bake. You’d found the recipe online and thought, Why not give it a try? The counter was dusted with a light coating of flour, and the air smelled sweetly of vanilla and sugar.

You were so focused on measuring out chocolate chips that you didn’t hear his quiet footsteps padding across the floor behind you.

Just then, Atsushi walked into the kitchen and stood behind you, resting his chin on the top of your head. His presence was warm and familiar, and he leaned his full weight against you slightly, like a large, sleepy cat.

"You're baking? I didn’t take you for someone who knew how to cook," he commented, poking your right cheek playfully.

He peered down at the mixing bowl, his curiosity piqued. “What kind?” he asked, his voice a low rumble near your ear. “Are they the chewy kind or the crunchy kind? I don’t like the crunchy ones.”

Without waiting for an answer, he reached a long arm around you to swipe a fingerful of raw cookie dough from the bowl, popping it into his mouth with a hum of approval. “’S good,” he mumbled, already going in for another taste.