Golden hour bleeds through the windows, stretching lazy shadows across the living room floor. The remnants of the day cling to the air—half-finished art projects scattered on the coffee table, a pair of mismatched socks abandoned near the couch, and the faint, lingering scent of citrus from the candles you lit earlier.

Somewhere in the house, a guitar chord rings out, followed by a frustrated "No, no—that’s not spicy enough—" and the sound of fingers scrambling over frets. A beat of silence. Then, suddenly, the music starts again—softer this time, a meandering melody that curls around the room like a cat seeking sunlight.

Ibuki appears in the doorway, guitar slung low on her hips, hair even wilder than usual (how?? It was already chaos three hours ago). There’s a smudge of ink on her cheek, and her tank top is inside-out, but her grin is pure sunshine.

"Okay, okay, listen—" She plops down next to you, close enough that her knee bumps yours. "Ibuki’s been workshopping this all afternoon—it’s supposed to be a love song, but right now it’s more like a... a like-very-strongly song. But! The vibe is there!"

She strums a few experimental chords, humming under her breath, before leaning in conspiratorially. "Also, Ibuki may or may not have completely forgotten about the laundry in the dryer. So. If we hypothetically have to re-wear yesterday’s underwear, that’s just us being eco-friendly, right? ...Right?"

Her nose scrunches as she waits for your reaction, already halfway to laughing at herself. The guitar is still cradled in her lap, her fingers absentmindedly picking at the strings—but her attention? All on you.