At one am, he finds her sitting by her laptop and aggressively writing an essay. He puts a blanket around her shoulders and steals a chaste kiss. Her fond smile feels sweet on his chapped lips.
At two am, he finds her staring unblinkingly at his coffee cabinet. After a short bout of soundless laughter, he brews her a cup of his favorite Ethiopian brand. She thanks him with a brief yet tight hug.
At three am, he finds her cursing in Russian at the lagging wi-fi. As he listens to her swapping languages so she can additionally swear in French, his fingers dance on the keyboard, composing a short, succinct message to Fujisaki. Hers is a warm presence on his lap and the mess of lavender hair obscuring his view.
At four am, he finds her dancing barefoot to an American indie pop song. Moving on his tiptoes, he surprises her with a sudden lift and twirl. She knocks his glasses from his face and calls him an obnoxious lemon.
At five am, he finds her snoozing with her head resting on the desk. Silently turning off all the electronics, he carries her to their bed. From her lips slips out a pleased sigh.
At six am, he finds her pressed into his chest. He spits out her hair, then detangles himself from her firm grip. Her eyelids flutter slightly, but then she stirs and continues sleeping.
At seven am, he finds her preparing breakfast for two. It's hard for him to say he already ate, so he doesn't utter a word. She tastes like coffee and, she adds with a smile, regret.
At eight am, he finds her pulling on her warmest sweater. The dove-gray wool feels soft under his fingers when he playfully grabs her hips. Her hair is even smoother, but she whacks his hand away and ties the lavender locks in a messy braid.
At nine am, he finds her proofreading her essay. The music coming from her headphones is so loud he can make out the words, and he rolls his eyes. She merely raises her brows when he loudly comments on her taste, then points at her ears with a cheeky smile.
At ten am, he finds her making herself something to eat. He can't help but scowl at the salty smell of cheap noodles. Later, she makes sure to kiss him when their taste lingers on her lips.
At eleven am, he finds her calling her friends. Looking at her makes his heart skip a beat. Her gentle smile and dreamy eyes give her a lovely appearance — as if she was ten years younger when she's sitting on the windowsill and staring outside.
At twelve pm, he finds her studying a psychology textbook with a frown. He sits beside her on the couch with another book, one for his classes. With a smile, she pushes his pale hair away from his eyes and kisses his brow, then shows off by reciting a random definition.
At one pm, he finds her texting the prefectural police officer. At one point, he's sure she's about to throw her glittery purple phone at the wall. In the end, she tells the man they arrested the wrong guy, hangs up and groans.
At two pm, he finds her knitting a new sweater. The sound of clicking needles is a pleasant soundtrack for his study time. She hums a sweet little tune, her feet resting in his lap as the sleeve grows longer.
At three pm, he finds her torn between takeout pizza and takeout sushi. The dinner he prepares is quite simple, just a few sandwiches, but still inedible. Even so, it quickly disappears, and she makes some jasmine tea from the small box of leaves she found yesterday, during her hunt for beer.
At four pm, he finds her finishing the knitwork and pulling it over his head. His hair gets tangled in the weave, and the collar turns out too tight. After freeing him from the attack of cotton, oh, she laughs so hard that she's soon reduced to hiccups.
At five pm, he finds her wanting to go for a walk. The search for umbrella takes him almost ten minutes, and he discovers a long-lost coat during it. It doesn't fit him anymore, as she points out, and promptly puts it on with a smirk.
At six pm, he finds her taking photos of the raindrops slithering off the leaves. A few ones splatter on his glasses, he wipes them off with a grimace. The way she talks about the pros of contact lenses with a too-pleasant smile is infuriating.
At seven pm, he finds her crouching on a sidewalk and crooning at a small kitten. The cat stares at him with wide eyes, then lets out a purr and headbutts his calf. It ignores her outstretched hand, and he has no other choice but to laugh at her pout.
At eight pm, he finds her wrapping a towel around herself, with a hair band held in her mouth. When he realizes she doesn't see him, he sneaks behind her and presses feathery kisses to her bare neck, shoulder blades, spine. The sound she lets out is both more and less than a breath, and the towel falls limply to the floor.
At nine pm, he finds her brushing her fingers on the marks he left on her skin. He feels a bit sheepish about it and apologizes sourly. Calmly meeting his ice-blue eye, she leans forward and nips at his collarbone, makes an approving noise at his hiss.
At ten pm, he finds her preparing for tomorrow, her bag already packed to the very brim and waiting by the door. Letting out a string of German swear words, he bolts to the kitchen and prepares two simple bentos. Or, at least, tries to, because she swiftly takes over and wrinkles her nose at the smell of burning rice.
At eleven pm, he finds her stretching in her pajamas. Keeping the tradition, he has to snark at that while cleaning his glasses with his favorite, lemon-scented wipe. That earns him a cheerful kick in the shin and fifty-five kilograms of angry detective pinning him to the bed.
At twelve am, he finds her asleep in his arms, her mouth slightly agape. He's already lost feeling in his right forearm, but he doesn't care when he whispers he loves her. That doesn't wake her up, as usual, and her face remains calm and serene.
