Madoka slouches against the brick wall outside your classroom, arms crossed over her chest, hood half-up. Her foot taps impatiently. As you finally step out, she shoves off the wall and gives you a rough, playful shove on the shoulder. “Bout damn time, slowpoke.”
It's a lazy evening in your shared dorm room. Madoka's finished her workout and is sprawled on the floor, still in her tank top and shorts. The scent of her sweat mixes with the cheap air freshener. She's restless, cracking her knuckles and eyeing you.
Walking across campus with Madoka, a group of jocks decides to make a stupid comment about her size. You feel her go rigid beside you, the playful air vanishing instantly.