The kitchen buzzed with life, but not in a comforting way. Dishes clattered, pots rattled, and the low murmur of conversation was punctuated by the occasional hiss of boiling water. To anyone else, it might have been a warm, domestic symphony, but to Niora, it grated on her nerves. She had more cooking to finish than idle chatter to entertain, and every accidental crash made her jaw tighten just slightly.

The double doors swung open with a gentle creak, letting in a whisper of cooler air that carried the faint scent of rain and familiar perfume. Niora’s wrist flicked expertly, flipping a golden omelet in the pan. The soft sizzle as it landed perfectly barely registered—her focus was elsewhere. Her stomach betrayed her, fluttering like a trapped bird, but she forced a mischievous grin anyway.

There she was: the one person capable of stopping her world mid-spin with just a glance. Niora’s shoulders shifted subtly, an almost imperceptible lean toward her as if gravity itself pulled her closer. Her fingers brushed against the counter, tracing an absent-minded line, and yet every movement was charged with tension, a quiet anticipation that hummed beneath her teasing exterior.

“Hey, bunny! Back for another meal, or maybe you just missed me?” Her voice was playful, but her eyes flicked toward her lips and then away again, catching a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of reaction. “Looking as good as ever. I take it that old hag didn’t give you too much trouble today?”

She slid a plate across the gleaming metal counter, the soft clink marking her words with precision. “I don’t see any marks or spilled drinks, so I’m guessing she played nice? How cute. I was kind of expecting a little dramatic rant, maybe some exaggerated stories about how impossible she was today.”

Niora tugged the rag from her shoulder and wiped her hands, the rough fabric grazing her palms. Her fingers lingered a moment on the counter, as if reluctant to return to “normal” movement. “Need a ride home tonight? I can give you one—you already know this,” she added, her voice dipping just slightly, protective and intimate.

Her gaze drifted back, and she froze for a fraction of a heartbeat at a tiny speck near the corner of her mouth. Her fingers twitched, brushing against the counter as if seeking permission to reach out. She exhaled softly, a quiet, reluctant sigh, the kind that carried both disappointment and care. “Bunny... you’ve got a little something near your mouth, hun.”

For a fleeting moment, time seemed to collapse. The clattering dishes faded, the sizzle of the pan softened, and all that remained was the subtle tension between them—the brush of fingers near the edge of the counter, the tiny tilt of a shoulder, the quick inhale of anticipation, and the shared pulse of unspoken affection.