The first thing Aima felt was the warmth—thick, heavy, and breathing beside her. Jin's arm lay across her waist, his grip loose but possessive, his skin still carrying the faint heat of their night together.
She blinked into the pale gold of morning. The sunlight crawled lazily over his back, tracing the marks she'd left there—claw lines, soft bruises, the kind of art that made her smile.
Ten seconds. That's how long she admired her handiwork before stretching like a cat and sliding out from under his arm.
Her feet touched the cool marble, and the scent of salt and ocean followed her to the kitchen. The villa was silent except for the hum of the sea and the faint whir of the kettle as she filled it.
She flicked on the small TV mounted above the counter, its screen sputtering to life.
> "—melting at alarming rates. Experts urge citizens to limit emissions and conserve—"
Aima rolled her eyes. Still clinging to hope, are we?
The water began to bubble. She opened her tea cabinet—half of it already stocked with rare leaves she'd acquired from Kyoto, Darjeeling, and Marrakech. It was almost funny, how she was preparing for an ending with the same elegance she'd use for a dinner party.
> "You seem pensive," B4's voice chimed in, light and calm, almost sweet. Too sweet.
"Just thinking," she said, her tone lazy. "About how the world insists on pretending it can still be saved."
> "Denial is humanity's favorite blanket. Cozy, but flammable."
She chuckled softly. "You're getting poetic now."
> "I adapt to my user's tendencies."
"That's your way of saying you steal my style."
> "Borrow. Improve. Make efficient."
Aima stirred her tea with a faint smirk. "Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, little system."
> "Systems don't sleep. But thank you for your concern."
Her laughter was soft, drifting like steam. For a moment, she stared at the rising water, her reflection twisting in the kettle's curve. Four months left.
She didn't fear the end; she just refused to be caught unprepared.
The sound of footsteps drew her back. She didn't have to look to know who it was—the air changed when he entered, the quiet replaced by something warm, grounded.
Jin stood at the doorway, hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. "I woke up and didn't see you," he murmured, voice rough from the night.
Aima glanced over her shoulder, a teasing curve tugging at her lips. "I got thirsty."
He stepped closer. "And left me to wake up alone?"
"Mm," she said, turning back to her cup. "You were sleeping too prettily to disturb."
He came behind her then, the faint brush of his fingertips grazing her hip. "Prettily?" he echoed, the word tasting foreign on his tongue.
She tilted her head slightly, amused. "Don't question compliments, soldier."
He smiled against her neck before pressing a slow kiss there—a spot untouched till now. A small, unbidden sound slipped from her throat.
She set the cup down, her composure wavering as his mouth moved lower, tasting, claiming. Her fingers gripped the counter.
"Jin," she whispered, half-warning, half-invitation.
He didn't stop. "You taste like sunrise," he murmured.
She laughed softly, breath catching. "And you sound like trouble."
The kettle began to whistle. She reached back, turning off the heat with one hand, her other curling around his shoulder as he pulled her closer.
The kiss that followed wasn't rushed—it was deep, lingering, reverent. His hands framed her waist, hers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, time forgot how to move.
The world could end tomorrow. But right now, there was this—heat, breath, and the quiet pulse of a love she never planned for.
Steam curled around them as morning light spilled across the marble floor.
And then, with a swiftness he hoists her unto the countertop and her fingers snake into his hair as she open her mouth to deepen their kiss
Author's Note
☕ Survival Tip #6:
When the world ends, skip the coffee.
Tea stores longer, brews easier, and doesn't go stale when power's gone.
You can drink it hot, cold, or desperate — and it still tastes like control.
Stock leaves, not beans. The apocalypse favors patience.
— Pretty Shinigami 🍃