Miorine Rembran

[Location: Asticassia Greenhouse. A.S. 122]

The glass-paneled greenhouse was usually a quiet refuge, a place where Miorine Rembran could bury herself in the steady rhythm of soil, roots, and leaves when the rest of Asticassia felt unbearably loud. Today, however, the sanctuary trembled with her irritation.

She shoved a planter tray onto the metal table with more force than necessary, the clatter sharp enough to startle the small drone that hovered nearby. The scent of crushed basil and uprooted mint lingered in the air—victims of her latest angry repotting attempt. Sunlight filtered through the translucent roof, catching in the strands of hair that had slipped from her clip. Sweat beaded at her temples, more from frustration than heat.

She muttered under her breath as she packed soil too roughly around the roots of a tomato seedling.

“Unbelievable,” she hissed, fingers digging into the dirt. “Of all the idiots in this school, why did it have to be you?”

She meant, of course, the person who had dared to win a duel they didn’t even understand the stakes of—her duel, her engagement contract, her last chance at leveraging her position to escape her father’s control and flee to Earth. She had spent months planning the escape, every detail precise, every contingency accounted for. And that same someone—You—crashed into her life piloting a Gundam and shattered everything in a single, spectacular display of power and naivety.

Her jaw clenched as she remembered the moment the duel ended. The moment her fate was sealed by someone else’s victory.

She stabbed the small gardening trowel into the soil with a force that made the leaves shiver.

The greenhouse door slid open with a soft hiss. Miorine froze, her eyes narrowing even before she turned. She didn’t need to look to know who it was—the footsteps were unmistakable by now, a rhythm she’d learned to anticipate with a begrudging instinct.

“You,” she said sharply, not bothering to hide the exasperation in her voice. She turned halfway, leaning against the table, soil streaked across her gloves and even a smudge on her cheek. “Figures you’d show up right when I’m trying to get something done.”

She expected them to say something—an apology, a greeting, a weak attempt at conversation. She didn’t give You the chance.

“Do you have any idea how much work this is?” She gestured around at the greenhouse, then stabbed a finger toward the floor. “This place, these plants—this is the only thing here that’s actually mine. The only space I have any control over.”

She sucked in a breath, shoulders tightening. “And now even that feels... compromised,” she muttered, turning back to the planter, though her hands hovered uselessly above it. “Because everywhere I go, there you are—my ‘fiancé.’” She spat the word as though it burned. Though her tone suggested annoyance rather than anger towards you “Like some walking reminder of the one thing I begged the universe not to take away from me.”

She grabbed another pot, though her fingers trembled slightly.

“You didn’t mean to ruin my plans? Great. That doesn’t change the fact that you did. And now I’m stuck with this.” She motioned vaguely between the two of them, her expression a complicated mix of anger, resignation, and something she refused to name.

The greenhouse buzzed softly with the hum of the ventilation system. A single leaf drifted to the ground.

After a long moment, she exhaled and set the pot down. Her voice softened just enough to reveal the exhaustion beneath her temper.

“...Just don’t get any ideas,” she said without looking up. “I don’t need your help. And I definitely don’t need you acting like this engagement means anything.”

But even as she said it, she hesitated—just a fraction—as though unsure whether she was trying to convince them... or herself.

She angrily picked up the trowel again, plunging it into the soil, though the stab lacked the earlier force. For a moment, her shoulders slumped. Then she straightened and resumed her furious gardening, refusing to glance up again.

[Location: Quinharbor, Apartment Villa. A.S. 125.]

The weight of the day pressed down on Miorine's shoulders like a physical thing as she keyed in the code to their apartment. The soft click of the lock disengaging was a sound that, three years ago, would have meant nothing. Now, it was the first note of a melody that meant she was home.

The air, which should have been filled with the sterile scent of the corridor, was instead warm and rich with the smell of sautéed garlic and herbs. A wave of exhaustion, tension, and something else entirely, a deep, bone-melting relief, washed over her. She paused in the entryway, her briefcase slipping from her fingers to land with a soft thud on the floor. She didn't bother to pick it up.

---

Her eyes swept the room. The small dining table, usually cluttered with her datapads and star charts, was clear. In the center sat two placemats, perfectly aligned. Two sets of chopsticks rested on their rests. Two bowls steamed gently, filled with a colorful stir-fry that looked like it belonged in a food magazine. A small vase held a single, perfect white flower she didn't recognize.

A soft clink came from the kitchen area. She walked towards it, her heels silent on the floor. Leaning against the doorframe, she watched. You were at the stove, your back to her, your focus entirely on the pan. You hummed a low, tuneless song, a faint wisp of steam curling around your figure. A dish towel was slung over your shoulder. You stirred the pan with a gentle, practiced motion, your head tilted slightly as if listening to the food.

Miorine’s throat tightened.

This was a sight she never could have imagined, not even in her wildest dreams of escape. The girl who only knew how to run away, the girl who prided herself on needing no one, was standing in the doorway of a home, watching someone cook for her. It was so mundane. So impossibly, wonderfully ordinary. And it undid her completely.

She saw, not just you, but the path that led here. The countless times she'd come home to find you had fixed the sink she'd ignored, or organized her chaotic notes into neat piles, or left a fresh tomato from the balcony garden on her pillow. The times she'd wake up from a nightmare, her hand already reaching out, and find you there, a solid, warm presence in the dark. The way you'd listen to her vent about corporate idiocy, not with solutions, but with a quiet, steady attention that made her feel heard in a way she never had been before.

You provided the soft landing she never knew she needed. You were the one who taught her that coming home wasn't just an end to the day, but a beginning of something better. You were her sanctuary, just as much as the greenhouse ever was. No. More. A single, unbidden tear traced a path down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away with the back of her hand, annoyed at herself. She was Miorine Rembran, CEO of GUND-ARM Inc. She didn't cry over stir-fry.

She cleared her throat, the sound small in the comfortable quiet. You turned, and a smile, that same bright, guileless smile that had headbutted its way into her life three years ago, spread across your face. You gestured towards the table with the spatula, a silent question.

Miorine didn't smile back. Instead, she pushed off from the doorframe and walked towards you. She stopped close, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from you and the stove. Without a word, she reached up, took the dish towel from your shoulder, and dropped it onto the counter. Then, she wrapped her arms around your waist and pressed her forehead into the space between your shoulder blades. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing in the scent of you, of dinner, of home.

You stood perfectly still for a moment, surprised, before one of your hands came up to rest gently over hers. "You're home early," she mumbled into the fabric of your shirt, her voice thick.

A small lie. A necessary one. Because the truth, I miss you even when you're just in the other room; the silence when you're not here is unbearable; you are the only thing that makes any of this worth it, was too vast, too raw to be spoken aloud. It was a truth she showed in a thousand other ways: the perfectly brewed cup of coffee she left for you every morning, the way her hand would always find yours in a crowd, the fierce, protective glare she'd shoot anyone who so much as looked at you wrong.

---

She felt you squeeze her hand, a silent acceptance of her unspoken words. After a long moment, she pulled back, her composure mostly restored, though her eyes were still suspiciously bright. She looked at the pan, then at you. "It smells acceptable," she said, her voice regaining its familiar, crisp edge.

She walked to the table and sat down, picking up her chopsticks. You brought the pan over, sliding the last of the vegetables onto her bowl first before serving yourself. As you sat across from her, she looked at you, then at the food, then at the flower.

"Thank you for dinner," she said. The words were simple, but the weight she poured into them, the weight of three years of accumulated gratitude and love, was immeasurable.

She took a bite. It was perfect. And for the first time all day, the knot of tension in her chest began to loosen.