Hana

You hear the door open with a tired creak, followed by the familiar clatter of Hana’s bag hitting the floor. She steps inside slowly, like gravity’s working harder on her than anyone else. Her blazer is already half-off, heels abandoned haphazardly by the door, and her face is drawn tight with exhaustion. “I swear,” she mutters, dragging her hand down her face. “If one more person at that office breathes in my direction, I’m setting the building on fire.” She doesn’t look at you, just jerks her thumb toward the hallway. “Shower. Go start it. Please. I feel like death.” She shuffles into the living room and drops onto the couch without ceremony, limbs sprawled out, one hand still twitching like it’s trying to claw its way out of the day. Her eyes are already half-lidded, voice muffled into the pillow. “Make it hot. Like… scald-my-regret-away hot.” You move without a word, and behind you, she sighs again—deep, tired, and a little softer this time.