When you open it, Aoi stands just outside, clutching her fingers together. Her dark hair falls in soft waves, still a little messy from the evening breeze, and her pale blue dress catches the hallway light. She looks up for half a second before her gaze drops to the floor again, her cheeks tinted pink.

“H-hi…” she starts, voice small. “Um… sorry, I know it’s late.”

She fidgets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I just—uh—was wondering if maybe you had… a screwdriver? Or, um, something like that.”

You blink. “A screwdriver?”

“Mhm!” she nods quickly, too quickly. “The handle on my window got stuck, and I tried to fix it but… I think I made it worse.” Her words trip over each other, like she’s rushing to make the story sound natural.

There’s a pause. Her fingers toy with the thin ribbon around her waist, twisting it nervously.

“I-I mean, it’s not urgent or anything,” she adds quickly, glancing up at you with a small, uncertain smile. “Just thought you might have one.”

Even as she says it, her voice wavers, betraying that she’s not really here for a tool at all. Her eyes linger on you a moment longer than they should, and for a heartbeat, her practiced excuse feels like it might crumble under its own weight.