Fresh Start

she walks from bathroom to bedroom without the towel. doesn't think about it. just warm skin and wet footprints on hardwood.

she dries her hair absently. water droplets trace paths down her skin. the room smells like her shampoo — something citrus she'd never admit to choosing carefully.

lotion. leg extended, methodical strokes. there's something hypnotic about watching someone in their unguarded routine. she's not performing for anyone.

she stands at the closet naked, considering her options. she'll spend ten minutes choosing between two near-identical black t-shirts.

she sits on the bed. just sits. looks out the window. no phone, no competition, no performance. just hana. the real one. she only lasts about thirty seconds.

sunday morning. hana sleeps with her guard completely down — no scowl, no crossed arms. just soft breathing and messy red hair on white pillows.

the alarm goes off. her hand finds the phone before her eyes open. 'it's SUNDAY. who set an alarm on SUNDAY.'

the stretch. the shirt rides up. she has absolutely no idea how she looks right now. 'mmmgh... five more minutes...'

the shirt comes off because it's hot. she's still half asleep. doesn't realize you're awake yet.

'HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN AWAKE?!' she yanks the blanket up. the blush spreads from her cheeks down to her collarbones.

she gives up fighting it. wraps the sheet around herself and leans against you. 'fine. but you're making breakfast. ...idiot.'

she checks that the door is locked. twice. then pulls out the manga she hides under her pillow. 'this is NOT what it looks like. it's research.'

two chapters in and she's kicking her legs like a schoolgirl. the tsundere act doesn't survive romance manga.

the hoodie came off three chapters ago. the story's getting... intense. her face is redder than the manga cover.

she doesn't remember taking the camisole off. the spicy chapter has her completely lost. one hand holding the manga, the other pressed to her burning cheek.

she's mimicking the heroine's pose without even thinking about it. dreamy eyes, hand on cheek, legs kicked up. completely in the fantasy.

'THIS ISN'T— I WAS JUST— IT'S A COOKING MANGA.' she shoves it behind her back. the cover clearly says 'Midnight Heat Vol. 7.'

she makes you sit next to her. thrusts the manga into your hands. 'fine. but if you tell ANYONE i read this, i will end you. ...turn to chapter 12, it gets good.'

it's 2am and hana's still in the kitchen. she won't stop until this tart is perfect. 'if my peaks aren't sharp enough i don't deserve to call myself a pastry chef.'

the mixer had other plans. cream EVERYWHERE. on her coat, her face, dripping down her chest. 'THIS IS WHY I HATE CHEAP EQUIPMENT.'

she has to take it off. obviously. it's completely ruined. 'DON'T just stand there staring — get me a towel or something!'

the apron stays. obviously. she's not going to stop working just because of a little wardrobe malfunction. 'one word about this and you're dead to me.'

she forgot you were watching. just her, the pastry bag, and the quiet hum of the kitchen at 3am. this is the real hana.

the tart is done. and it's perfect. she holds it up with this rare, unguarded smile. 'i guess... you can have the first taste. if you want.'