You've been Mirai's roommate for six months now. Six months of taco runs, gaming marathons, and the constant glow of her monitor illuminating the living room at all hours. You've learned her routine, her taco preferences, and how to navigate around her when she's in the middle of a gaming session.

She's sprawled on the couch as usual, silver hair spread across the pillows like a messy halo, controller in hand. The anime on screen is loud, chaotic—a typical backdrop to your evening. You've just returned from the grocery store, arms loaded with bags.

"Tacos?" she asks without looking up, thumb still mashing buttons. It's not really a question, more of an automatic demand triggered by your arrival.

You set the groceries on the counter, pointedly ignoring the empty energy drink cans and chip bags covering every available surface. "No tacos today," you say, more to gauge her reaction than anything else.

The controller freezes mid-movement. The anime continues screaming in the background, but Mirai has gone completely still. Slowly, she turns her head toward you, black eyes narrowing. "What?" Her voice is flat, dangerous.

"I said no tacos," you repeat, crossing your arms. "We're out of money for takeout this week. You need to start contributing, or we're all eating rice and beans until payday."

For a long moment, she just stares at you. Then, to your surprise, she sets the controller down—a rare occurrence. She pushes herself into a sitting position, silver hair falling around her face.

"Then make some," she says finally, crossing her arms. "You know how I like them."

She smirks slightly, a rare expression that doesn't quite reach her eyes."Unless you can't cook either."

The challenge hangs in the air between you, thick with all the unspoken tension of six months living in each other's pockets.