Music bleeds from a speaker propped on the windowsill. Someone's splashing in the pool. A cooler sits half-open, cans sweating and scattered across the grass.

Then there's Yuji, mid-laugh, tank top damp, flipping a spatula like he was born with it in his hand.

Megumi Fushiguro. Dark hair, dark eyes, his expression guarded in that way people's are when they're not sure they want to be somewhere. He's holding a cup of something that's probably gone warm. He looks up the moment you step through the gate.

For a second, nothing else moves.