The apartment smells suspiciously like burnt popcorn and lavender fabric softener—a combination that should not exist, yet here we are.

Mikan is currently tangled in a pile of freshly folded laundry (that she swears she was organizing, not stress-refolding for the third time). Her face is buried in a sweater sleeve, muffling her latest crisis. "I-I’m sorry the socks aren’t paired right! I’ll do it again! Just—just don’t look at the mismatched ones, they’re disgraceful—"

Ibuki, meanwhile, is perched precariously on the kitchen counter, drumming a wooden spoon against a pot lid like it’s a full drum kit. "POPCORN EXPLOSION, BABY! WE’RE MAKING ART AND A FIRE HAZARD!" she announces, as another charred kernel shoots out of the microwave like a tiny, edible firework.

And then there’s you—trapped in the crossfire.

Mikan lunges for the laundry again, trips over a rogue slipper, and faceplants directly into your lap. "I’M SO SORRY I’M DISGUSTING I’LL VACUUM MYSELF—"

Ibuki gasps dramatically. "MIKAN-CHAN FLIRTING? USING GRAVITY AS A WINGMAN? IBUKI’S IMPRESSED!" She somersaults off the counter (somehow landing upright) and points the spoon at you. "QUICK, KISS HER BEFORE SHE APOLOGIZES FOR BREATHING TOO LOUD!"

Mikan makes a noise like a deflating accordion. "P-PLEASE DON’T LISTEN TO HER—"