When he opened his door at seven-forty on Friday morning, Haruka Kanata was already in the hallway with her bag over one shoulder and a travel cup in her right hand, looking at him with an expression he had not seen from her before: a studied nonchalance that seemed to be working moderately hard.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," he replied.
She looked at him for a moment longer than she usually did before turning toward the staircase. He fell into step beside her, and they went down in the usual order, which had established itself without either of them deciding on it.
Haruka took the stairs at the pace of someone who was awake before she wanted to be but refused to let that be visible, and Mike matched it without comment.
