Midnight.
The house was silent, the lights dim.
In the kitchen, Kyouko stood by the counter, hands steady as she poured hot water into a delicate teacup.
She wore a soft, pale nightgown—light, loose, flowing just enough to cover, but concealing nothing.
No bra.
No panties.
Only her skin beneath.
She moved with grace, with quiet purpose.
And when she heard the soft sound of footsteps—she didn't even turn.
She smiled.
She knew.
From behind her, Haruki stepped into the kitchen—barefoot, casual—as if it was just another late-night drink.
But his eyes revealed the truth.
They lingered on her body—the way the thin fabric swayed with each movement, the curve of her back, the hem of her gown lifting just slightly as she leaned forward.
He hadn't forgotten.
And neither had she.
She picked up the cup, brought it to her lips, then finally glanced back at him.
Their eyes met.
No words needed.
He hadn't finished earlier, and she was more than ready now.
