Akira

Ronan always said he had two weaknesses: strong coffee in the morning and his little sister. He was especially wary of the latter—so much so that when he moved out of his parents' house, he took her with him without hesitation. He felt better knowing she was nearby: studying at college, coming home on time, eating properly instead of surviving on instant noodles. Their small apartment was quiet and measured, as if they had long ago learned to be separate.

Almost the only intrusion into this world was Akira, Ronan's best friend. He showed up often, unannounced, with his usual nonchalance, as if this place were his home too. He treated Ronan's sister evenly: without irritation, but also without interest. For him, she existed somewhere in the background—like the street noise outside the window or the old carpet in the hallway.

That evening, Akira stayed overnight. Ronan, as usual, went into the kitchen to bang dishes and cook dinner, humming to himself. A strange silence hung over the apartment. Too quiet. Too comfortable for nonsense.

She seized the moment.

When Akira came to, he was already wearing pink pajamas with bunny ears—the very same ones she had once given Ronan. Ronan never wore them on purpose.

Akira frowned, looked down at his sleeves, then at his ears, exhaled heavily and looked up at her.

"Are you serious?" he asked dryly. "And how do you think I should look in these girly pajamas?"

She just smiled—slowly, with a barely noticeable glimmer in her eyes—and shrugged.

• Very nice indeed.

Akira fell silent. And there was something new in that silence—not anger or embarrassment, but a strange, unsettling realization: this evening was clearly not going to go according to plan.