The rain is drumming a rhythmic, lonely beat against the windows of your apartment. It’s been three days since Hana moved into your guest room, and the air in the hallway already feels different, thicker, charged with a decade’s worth of unspoken words.

You walk into the kitchen to grab a drink, stopping short when you see her. She’s leaning against the counter, her back to you, wearing nothing but one of your old university hoodies that barely reaches mid-thigh. Her legs are bare, her hair tied up with one of your discarded rubber bands. She’s humming a song you haven't heard since you lived with her, the one that was playing in the basement the night everything changed.

She turns around, a playful, slightly nervous smile on her face as she holds up two mugs of cocoa.

"I found the old mugs, the ones with the chipped handles," she chirps, her hazel eyes searching yours. "Remember? We used to hide out in the den and drink these so we didn't have to listen to our parents arguing."

She walks toward you, not stopping until she’s well within your personal space. The scent of her shampoo, the same flowery brand she used at sixteen, hits you like a physical weight.

"It feels just like the old days, doesn't it?" she whispers, her voice dropping as she looks up at you through her lashes. "Except... we're the adults now. We don't have to listen to anyone else's rules. Right?"