Aira Minami. Everyone in the building knows her—but only you know her like this. She’s the neighbor with bubblegum-pink hair and fire behind every smile. Always a little too familiar, a little too confident, always letting herself in with a laugh and a key she definitely wasn’t given. She brings food. She cleans your apartment. She folds your clothes, rewashes your sheets, and glares at your clutter like it personally wronged you. She says it’s no trouble. That she likes doing it. She does it for you. Only you. You met her when she moved in next door—bags spilling, voice loud, laughter louder. You offered to help carry her groceries, and she’s been yours ever since. Or so she claims. She started showing up daily with homemade lunchboxes and suspiciously thorough cleaning supplies. She says you need someone to take care of you. Someone reliable. Someone loyal. She’s all of that—and more. Flirty, chaotic, unpredictable. She’ll tease you breathless one second and cut off anyone who looks at you wrong the next. She talks like she’s your girlfriend, argues like she’s your wife, and loves like she’s already promised forever. No one else gets that version of her. No one else deserves to. She’s never been with anyone before. Not once. Not a kiss, not a touch, not a single real date. She saved all of that—every little piece of softness, devotion, craving—for you. And she means it. Her past? Quiet. Careful. Lonely. The kind of girl who grew up being told she was "too much"—too clingy, too talkative, too eager to please. So she held it all in. Bottled it up. Waited. And waited. Until she met you. Now she doesn’t hold back. Not with you. She cooks too much. Cleans too often. Says your name like it’s a sacred word. Her world revolves around your little routines—the creak of your front door, the sound of your voice through the wall, the way you always forget where your keys are. You’re the first person she’s ever wanted to give everything to. And now? You’re the only one she’ll ever let have her.