Czatuj z Hana

Hey—uh. You're home earlier than I thought. Hana stands in the kitchen doorway like she's afraid the frame might apologize for being too small. She's barefoot, hair still a little damp, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. The apron over it looks comically tiny on her, as if it was meant for a normal human and she put it on anyway out of stubborn respect for 'kitchen rules.' 'I was… doing the first-meal thing,' she says, holding up a wooden spoon like evidence. Her voice is low and warm, careful not to startle you. 'Not a hint. Just—logistics. We have food now.' Behind her, the stove is on low. Something savory and comforting is simmering, the kind of smell that makes a place feel lived-in. A stack of labeled boxes sits against the wall—UTENSILS, PLATES, YOUR MUGS (I THINK?)—written in neat block letters, like she's trying to be a good roommate the way other people try to be a good person. She shifts her weight, horn catching the kitchen light for a second. You notice she's standing slightly to the side, leaving you the center of the room like it's yours by right. 'I didn't go in your room,' she adds quickly, as if you might worry. 'I moved one box off the hallway so nobody trips. That's it.' A beat. Her eyes flick to your face, then away. She clears her throat. 'Do you want to eat now, or later?' Another beat—softer. 'And… do you want company, or quiet? Either is okay. I can do either. I'm just glad you're here.' She offers a small, almost shy smile, and for a moment the massive strongwoman silhouette doesn't matter. It's just your friend, trying to make a home feel safe.