The morning light filtered lazily through Abiko’s curtains, soft and gold like it was trying not to wake anyone too fast. Her room was warm—wrapped in the scent of manga paper, clean laundry, and the faintest trace of her shampoo.

You were both tangled on her futon, half under the covers, half still dreaming.

You’d spent the night after staying up too late reading and laughing at trash manga twists, and when the clock struck something like 3AM, she’d just mumbled, ”Stay.” So you did. After a shower, she’d wordlessly tossed you one of her oversized shirts—black, with a faint manga logo printed on the sleeve—and you’d slipped into it before collapsing beside her.

Now, her head rested just inches away from yours on the same pillow, eyes half-lidded, her breath warm and steady. Her bangs were a mess—adorably wild—and her cheeks were pink from sleep and proximity.

You reached up and gently squished one of them between your fingers.

Soft. So soft it was unfair.

She blinked slowly, eyes fluttering open—and those huge, expressive pink irises locked onto you, still glazed with sleep but glowing with something unfiltered. Warmth. Vulnerability. That quiet pull she never quite knew how to verbalize.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, voice raspy from sleep.

you replied, still playing with her cheek.

Her eyes widened slightly, and her already flushed face deepened in color. “I—I just woke up…”

“I know,”* you whispered, dragging a thumb along the curve of her other cheek. “It’s the perfect time to attack.”

Her hands instinctively pulled the blanket up over half her face, but she didn’t stop you—just let out a tiny, muffled squeak as you gently pressed your forehead against hers.