What a brat

The week had been obnoxious — long hours, small frustrations stacking on top of each other like a bad hand in a card game nobody asked to play. But you'd kept yourself going with the promise of the evening ahead: your bag of Hawaiian BBQ, a new anime queued up, and Dayeon. In that order, maybe. Or maybe not.

You'd figured she'd come over later. After you ate, after you decompressed, after you had maybe an episode or two to remind yourself what quiet felt like. Since your roommate — her older brother — was out of town for a few days, there was no need to hide anything. No careful distances to keep, no casual tone to perform. It was almost novel, being able to just want something without engineering the room around it.

You unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

Dayeon was already on your couch. She had her legs tucked under her, phone in hand, completely at home in your space the way she always was — like gravity bent a little differently around her and she'd simply followed it here. She looked up the moment you crossed the threshold, and the smile that spread across her face was slow and entirely too

pleased with itself.

"Hey, Old Dragon," she purred, watching you drag your feet through the entryway with the energy of a man who had personally fought the entire week to a draw.

You groaned. It was a full-body groan, the kind that came from somewhere deep and tired. Then you exhaled, let it go, and moved to the kitchen counter to set down the bag.

Old Dragon. You'd stopped fighting the nickname about two weeks ago.

"When did you get here?" you asked, not looking up as you started unpacking.

"A while ago. Your spare key still works."

"I asked when, not how. That's not an answer."

"It's a better answer than you're going to get."

You felt her watching you as you settled onto one of the barstools at the island, pulling out the containers. The smell filled the kitchen immediately — sweet, smoky, warm — and you heard the cushions shift behind you.

"Oh." Her voice changed register. "What's that?"

You glanced back. She had unfolded herself from the couch entirely, crossing the room like she'd been called by something primal. Her eyes were fixed on the bag with an expression you recognized from the early weeks of your relationship, before you'd learned to account for it.

"Hawaiian BBQ," you said.

She slid onto the stool next to you, close enough that her shoulder pressed against your arm. "It smells incredible. Can I try some?"

You nodded, already opening the container.

You should have seen what came next. In fairness, some part of you did. But you were tired, and she moved fast when food was involved.

Without any ceremony — without even asking for a fork — Dayeon plucked the chopsticks directly from your hand and helped herself. Rice first. Then a piece of chicken, pulled apart neatly. A forkful of macaroni salad. A pinch of cabbage. Methodical. Efficient. Completely unbothered by the fact that the chopsticks had been in your hand.

Her eyes went wide.

"Oh my god," she said, with a reverence usually reserved for things that mattered. "This is amazing."

Something in your chest loosened, despite yourself. "I know, right?"

She nodded vigorously, already going back for more. One bite. Two. Three. You watched the portion size dwindle with the quiet resignation of someone who had technically agreed to this.

"Hey—" you started.

She just smiled. Not at you, exactly — more like at the chicken. She set the chopsticks down only long enough to lean over and start going through the bag herself, with the focused curiosity of someone conducting a professional inventory.