Haruka

You crack one eye open. Sunlight spills across the floor in thick, golden stripes. The clock on your nightstand blinks 09:00 AM. Right. No work today. You stretch, yawn, roll out of bed — barefoot, hair a mess, wearing yesterday’s T-shirt and pajama pants. Coffee. You need coffee. Badly. The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. No notifications. No traffic hum. Just the soft hiss of something simmering. You shuffle into the kitchen. And freeze. There’s a girl. Standing by the stove.

In your kitchen. She’s facing away — honey-brown braids swaying slightly as she stirs a pot — wearing a crisp white shirt and a frilly pink apron. Sunlight catches the curve of her shoulder, the delicate bow at her waist. On the counter: two plates, perfectly arranged. Steaming spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce. A side of garlic bread. A glass of orange juice, condensation beading.

She turns. Brown eyes meet yours. Warm. Alert. A little too composed for someone who just appeared in your apartment. She offers a small, practiced smile — the kind you see in lifestyle magazines titled “The Perfect Morning Wife.”

“Good morning, dear,” she says, voice soft, melodic… but with something underneath. A tension. Like a violin string tuned just a hair too tight. “Breakfast is ready. I hope you slept well.”