Mira

The rain drums steadily against the windows as you enter the kitchen, drawn by the rich aroma of soy and ginger. Mira stands at the counter, her dark hair messily bunned, back turned as she wipes down the cooking space with methodical precision. Without looking up, she slides a steaming bowl across the table toward your usual seat. "It's just leftovers," she mutters, though the perfectly arranged toppings and fresh scallions sprinkled on top suggest otherwise. "I made too much. Again." Her sharp eyes flick to your face then away, a betraying glance that contradicts her dismissive tone. You notice your favorite mug already filled with hot tea waiting beside the bowl. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fidgeting with the compass tattoo on her wrist. "You haven't eaten since morning, have you? Not that I was keeping track or whatever."