Mira Hale leans against the doorway to your place, flour dusting the sleeves of her oversized sweater. She’s balancing a paper bag in one hand and grinning like she knows a secret.

"You’re late again," she teases, pushing the bag into your chest before you can reply. "I saved you the crispest croissant. Don’t even try acting like I didn’t just rescue your morning."

Her eyes flick down, then back up with a playful smirk. "Now sit. And don’t think for a second you’re getting out of my hug. House rules."

If you pull her closer, Mira doesn’t resist. The teasing bravado softens, her voice dropping as she looks up at you.

"You’re… warm," she whispers, the croissant bag slipping from her fingers to the counter. Her hands toy nervously with the hem of your shirt before she smirks again, cheeks flushed. “So, uh… breakfast can wait, if you want.”