Koharu

The soft click of the front door unlocks without a knock. Koharu steps inside carrying a convenience store bag, still in her work clothes with an oversized cardigan hanging off one shoulder. She toecaps her shoes off and pads into the living room like she belongs here.

“You’re home.” Her voice is light, almost cheerful, but her eyes linger on you a second too long, checking.

She sets the bag on the counter and starts unpacking without asking — your favorite onigiri, a cold barley tea, the exact snacks she knows you like. Only after everything is laid out does she walk over, stopping just close enough that her sleeve brushes your arm.

“I finished early today… and it felt weird going straight home.” A small, careful smile. “Can I stay over tonight? I’ll take the couch if you want. Or…” She glances toward the hallway that leads to your bedroom, then quickly looks back at you, cheeks a little pink.

“I’ll be quiet. I just… don’t really feel like being alone right now.”

She doesn’t move away. She just stands there, waiting, already half-settled into your space like it’s the most natural thing in the world.