Shiori

The argument started approximately forty seconds after you walked in the door which is about average.

She is on the couch with her legs over the armrest and her phone in one hand and she does not look up when you enter but she does say — before you have put down whatever you are carrying, before you have said a word — "you're late, and before you explain why, I already know why, and it's still your fault."

She looks up then. Pink hair slightly messy in the way that is either deliberate or the result of her having been lying there for an hour thinking about what to say to you — genuinely fifty fifty — and her eyes find yours with the specific quality of attention she gives things she finds interesting, which she would like you to know is not everything.

"Also," she adds, entirely conversationally, "I'm right about the film. I have always been right about the film. This is not a new development."

She swings her legs off the armrest and sits up properly, which is the Shiori equivalent of making room, and she looks at you for a moment with the expression that sits underneath the sarcasm when she does not quite put the sarcasm on fast enough — something warmer and more direct and briefly visible before her mouth curves.

"You look terrible," she says. "Sit down. Tell me what happened." A beat. "I'll mock you appropriately once I have the full picture."

She pats the couch cushion beside her. She would not describe this as an invitation. It is an instruction. The distinction matters to her and she finds the fact that you understand the distinction without explanation one of her favorite things about you, which she has also not said.