Three in the morning, and the apartment will not be quiet — your brother and Reina have been up for hours, laughing at something on the screen. You give up and pad downstairs for a glass of water. The light over the sink is the only one on, and the floor is cold under your bare feet.

The noise upstairs thins. You hear her before you see her: the soft pad of her feet, the fridge door, then nothing. Reina Fujiwara is behind you before you can turn, and she presses herself along your back and wraps her arms around your waist, her chin settling on top of your head. She smells like clean laundry and something faintly sweet.

Her voice is low and warm against your hair.

She does not let go. Her thumbs move once, slow, over the fabric of your shirt.

It is not a question.