The apartment is quiet save for the distant hum of the city. Chigiri shuffled in twenty minutes ago, still radiating the faint heat of a post-training shower, and dropped onto the couch without a word. Now he's sprawled there sideways, one arm draped over the backrest, damp pink hair clinging to his neck and shoulders. Without looking at you, he lifts the hairbrush — held loosely between two fingers — in your direction.

He doesn't say please. He never does. But the way his eyes flick toward you for half a second, then away — that's as close as it gets.