Chapter 3

I woke up smiling.

That lasted about three seconds.

Then I realized the room was cold on one side of the bed.

My eyes opened to the slanted ceiling above me, pale morning light making the old plaster look soft and blue. For one perfect, sleepy breath, I did not remember anything except warmth. Riko’s laugh. Riko’s hands. Riko’s hair falling around my face like fire. The way she had said my name like she had found it somewhere and decided it belonged in her mouth.

Then I reached across the bed.

Empty.

The blanket beside me was tangled, wrinkled, and cooling. The pillow still had the shape of her head pressed into it, but she was not there. Her jacket was gone. Her bat was gone. Her boots were gone. There was no sound from the kitchenette. No humming synthetic heartbeat near the window. No teasing voice calling me peach boy. No message panel floating in the air with some ridiculous note waiting for me.

Just my room.

My very small, very messy, very quiet room.

My stomach dropped so hard I almost felt sick.

“Riko?” I whispered.

No answer.

My stomach sank.

I sat up, clutching the blanket against myself before I remembered there was no one there to see me. The bed was a disaster. The sheets were twisted almost sideways, one pillow on the floor, the blanket half pulled free from the mattress. My clothes were everywhere. Her clothes were not everywhere, which I noticed immediately with a little unhappy pinch under my ribs.

Her jacket was gone.

Her bat was gone.

Her boots were gone.

She was gone.

For a second, I could not move.

The room smelled like cherry perfume, sex, and a night I did not know how to think about yet. It should have made me happy. Some of it did. A lot of it did. But the happiness had sharp edges now, because she had left before I could say good morning. Before I could make tea. Before I could ask if she slept okay. Before I could maybe, possibly, if I was very brave and also had a script, ask whether last night meant anything similar to what it meant to me.

Maybe it had not.

Maybe that was why she left.

My throat tightened.

“Oh,” I said.

It was a very small sound.

Charlie sat on the windowsill in his chipped blue pot, newest silver leaf half unfurled and noble. He had witnessed everything with the calm dignity of a plant who understood confidentiality.

I looked at him.

Charlie looked like Charlie.

“Good morning,” I said, because manners were important, even during emotional emergencies.

Charlie did not answer.

“Riko is gone.”

Still nothing.

“That is probably fine. People leave places. That is normal. She has her own life and mysterious Døll business and probably crimes. Not bad crimes. Maybe stylish crimes. She does have a bat.”

Charlie remained leafy and wise.

My smile arrived.

Too fast.

Too bright.

A customer service smile that had somehow followed me home and stood in the corner with a clipboard.

“Anyway!” I said, much too loudly for one person and one plant. “Cleaning.”

I got out of bed and immediately stepped on something soft.

I froze.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted my foot.

A pair of panties lay on the floor.

Not mine.

Obviously.

They were tiny, black, and very Riko.

For a long moment, I stared down at them.

Then my entire face caught fire.

“Oh crumbs.”

I looked at Charlie.

Charlie did not look away because he had no eyes, but he was absolutely looking.

“This is not mine,” I told him.

Very helpful clarification.

The panties remained on the floor, existing aggressively.

I crouched.

Stopped.

Stood back up.

Crouched again.

“What is the correct procedure for handling abandoned date underwear?” I whispered.

Charlie, traitorously, offered no advice.

I picked them up with two fingers like they were an enchanted artifact with unknown effects. They were soft. Warm? No. Not warm. My brain was being ridiculous. They were just fabric. Extremely intimate fabric. Fabric that belonged to the girl who had licked peach jam off my face, invited herself into my apartment, changed my life, and then apparently escaped before dawn while forgetting her panties like some kind of romantic bandit.

My heart gave a stupid hopeful little leap.

She forgot them.

That meant she might come back.

Or she left them on purpose.

That meant she might come back more.

Or she left them on purpose because she wanted me thinking about her.

That was absolutely working.

I placed them on my desk.

Then immediately moved them because my desk was where I wrote my good things list, and putting panties there felt like asking Charlie to supervise adult paperwork.

I put them on the chair.

No. That looked abandoned.

I folded them.

That was somehow worse.

I unfolded them.

Worse again.

I finally placed them on top of a clean towel beside the window, far enough from Charlie that he could retain plausible deniability.

“There,” I said.

Charlie looked unchanged.

“Do not judge her. Or me. Or the panties.”

The silence was terrible.

So I cleaned.

The sheets went into the laundry basket first. Then the pillowcase. Then the blanket, after I stood there holding it for a full minute because it smelled like Riko and I was apparently the kind of person who got sentimental over laundry now. I scrubbed the little table. I wiped down the windowsill. I moved Charlie very carefully and cleaned beneath him even though there was nothing there. I washed the plate in the sink. I washed the cup beside it. Then I washed the cup again because it had been near the sink while I was having feelings, and feelings were probably airborne.

My apartment had already been clean before Riko.

Then it had become very not clean.

Now I was determined to make it clean enough to hide the fact that anything had happened, which was silly because my whole body remembered. My bed remembered. My face remembered. The folded towel with Riko’s panties on it definitely remembered.

I showered too long.

The hot water worked its way over my horns, through my hair, along my tail, over the red square on my forearm where the patch had irritated my skin. I washed carefully, slowly, not because I felt dirty. I refused that. Last night was not dirty. Riko was not dirty. I was not dirty.

But I felt… touched.

Everywhere.

Not just skin. Heart too. Brain too. A little bit of soul maybe.

I leaned my forehead against the shower wall.

“She left,” I whispered.

The water made it sound less lonely than it was.

Then I shook my head hard enough that one horn bumped the tile.

“Ow.”

Good. Ow was useful. Ow was a physical problem. Physical problems could be handled with towels, ointment, and not bumping horns into tile like a sad goat.

By the time I dressed for work, the apartment looked like nothing had happened unless someone looked at the bed too closely, or the laundry basket, or the suspiciously folded towel near Charlie.

I checked my system panel.

No messages.

That was fine.

Perfectly fine.

People were allowed to not message immediately after changing another person’s entire understanding of romance, intimacy, and the structural integrity of a small apartment bed.

Very normal.

I checked again.

Still no messages.

Less normal.

I checked the patch.

Amber.

Working.

Good.

I checked Riko’s contact.

Still there.

That was something.

Maybe.

“Okay,” I told Charlie. “I am going to work. You are in charge.”

Charlie remained steady.

I lowered my voice. “Especially of the underwear.”

Charlie’s leaf trembled in the draft.

“Thank you.”

Hearthbell Bakery smelled like butter, sugar, yeast, and the kind of morning that expected you to be functional whether or not a Døll girl had detonated your life and vanished before breakfast.

Mara looked up when I came in.

Her eyes moved over me once.

Then again, slower.

“Oh,” she said.

I froze. “Oh?”

“Oh.”

“That is a concerning oh.”

“It is a very informed oh.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

Mara’s eyebrows rose.

I tied my apron too fast and got the strap twisted. “I am normal. Good morning. Ready for bread. Very excited about bread. Bread is reliable and does not leave before dawn.”

The head baker paused beside the oven.

Mara stared at me.

I stared at the apron knot and wished it would become sentient and rescue me.

“Yuzu,” Mara said carefully. “Did the scary bat girl stay over?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“She met Charlie.”

Mara put both hands over her face.

The head baker turned around and went back to the oven with the expression of a man choosing not to participate in youth.

Mara lowered her hands. “And?”

“And what?”

“And how are you?”

“I am great!” I said.

Too bright.

Mara’s expression softened in the way that made me want to hide in the flour closet.

“Yuzu.”

I looked down. “She left before I woke up.”

Mara went quiet.

“I mean, that is probably normal for some people. Maybe Dølls. Maybe Riko specifically. She is very… Riko. And she forgot something, so maybe she will come back. Or maybe she left it as a joke. Or a trap. Or flirting. Her flirting and traps seem very related.”

“What did she forget?”

I made the mistake of thinking about the panties.

My face answered for me.

Mara’s eyes widened.

“Oh.”

“Please stop saying oh.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

She pressed her lips together.

Then failed.

I pointed at her. “Do not laugh. This is serious.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Mara.”

She turned away, shoulders shaking once.

I grabbed a tray of unbaked buns and focused on work because work was sane. Work was dough and timing and glaze and ovens. Work did not make me think about a pair of panties sitting near my emotional support plant.

Mostly.

The first few hours went okay.

I tied my apron on with fingers that only shook a little, tucked my tail carefully behind me, checked the patch under my sleeve and hurried toward the prep table before Mara could ask anything else. The first oven timer chimed again, sharper this time, and the head baker called from the back, “Yuzu, trays!”

“Yes! Trays. I am a tray person. I mean, not a tray person, a person who handles trays. Coming!”

Mara stared at me for one beat too long.

I did not look at her.

Very normal.

Extremely normal.

I grabbed the mitts, opened the oven, and was immediately wrapped in a wall of heat and cinnamon steam. cinnamon buns. Six trays. Golden spirals puffed high and glossy at the edges, filling the kitchen with butter, brown sugar, and the warm smell of something that was about to make at least three people’s mornings better. That helped. My brain grabbed the scent like a rope and pulled itself closer to the ground.

Tray out. Rack. Second tray out. Rack. Third tray.

The system pinged.

Riko: Are you baking now?

I almost dropped the tray.

“Hot hot hot,” I squeaked, catching the edge before it tilted too far. One cinnamon buns slid half a centimeter and stopped.

Mara looked over. “You good?”

“Yes!”

Another ping.

Riko: You did not answer.

Riko: Are you dead?

Riko: If you are dead, I will be annoyed.

Riko: Also sad.

Riko: Mostly annoyed first because that is easier.

I stared at the messages floating in the corner of my vision while holding a tray of dangerously fresh cinnamon rolls.

(Don’t answer while carrying hot things.)

That was a good rule.

A responsible rule.

A professional bakery rule.

I set the tray down, shoved the oven closed with my hip, then opened the panel with two fingers before I could think better of it.

Yuzu: Not dead! Baking. Sorry. Hot trays.

Her reply came before I finished taking off the mitts.

Riko: Good.

Riko: I like that you answered fast.

Riko: Do it again next time.

I smiled.

Then immediately tried not to smile because that was probably a strange thing to smile about.

She was just being direct. Dølls were direct, maybe. Or Riko was direct. Or both. I did not know enough Dølls to make broad cultural assumptions, and broad cultural assumptions were how people ended up thinking horrible things about baker boys with horns.

Yuzu: I will answer when I can safely not drop bread.

Riko: Bread is replaceable.

I gasped softly.

Yuzu: Bread is NOT replaceable. Bread is beloved.

Riko: Fine. You may protect bread.

Riko: For now.

I pressed my lips together very hard because smiling at a system panel during work was not professional, and also because Mara was still absolutely watching me while pretending to scrape flour from the table.

Yuzu: I was worried.

Riko: Cute.

Yuzu: I thought maybe I did something wrong.

There was a pause.

Long enough for my whole body to go cold.

Then

Riko: Don’t make sad boy noises at me through text.

Riko: You didn’t do anything wrong.

Riko: I left because goodbyes are stupid.

Another pause.

Riko: And because if you looked at me like that in the morning I might have done something embarrassing.

Yuzu: What kind of embarrassing?

Riko: Honest.

I forgot how to breathe.

Mara plucked my panel lower with two fingers even though she could not see the messages. “Yuzu. Buns.”

“Right. Buns.”

Riko: Also I forgot my panties.

I made a sound.

Mara froze.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“Yuzu.”

“Nothing bakery relevant.”

Riko: Keep them safe.

Riko: Or wear them.

Riko: No, wait, don’t.

Riko: Unless you want to.

Riko: Actually if you do, send proof.

I almost dropped the tray.

Yuzu: I am at work!

Riko: Coward.

Yuzu: Responsible citizen.

Riko: Cute coward.

Yuzu: Responsible cute citizen.

Riko: Mine.

The word hit harder than it should have.

Mine.

My fingers hovered over the reply window.

I knew that word should worry me. Maybe it did. Maybe somewhere sensible in me, a tiny baker wearing a flour dusted helmet was waving a red flag.

But another part of me, a lonely part that had woken up to cold sheets and silence, held that word against his chest like a warm loaf.

Mine.

Mara’s mouth twitched, but she let me work. Mostly.

I brushed glaze over the rolls while they were still hot, letting it melt into the spirals and shine. The kitchen shifted into morning rhythm around me. Mara piped cream into horn pastries. The head baker shaped loaves with the stern focus of someone negotiating with dough on behalf of civilization. The dishwasher golem clanked once, hiccupped steam, and needed a gentle kick to resume functioning. I took front counter for the first rush because I was good at front counter when my brain was not actively being stolen by a Døll.

“Good morning!” I said to the first customer, a sleepy office worker with ink stains on his sleeve. “We have cinnamon rolls still warm enough to change your day.”

His eyes flicked to my horns, then the patch, then the rolls.

The pause was there.

Tiny.

Sharp.

But he said, “Two, please.”

“Excellent choice. Day changed.”

He almost smiled.

Good.

Another ping.

Riko: What did you make?

I wrapped the rolls.

“Two crowns.”

The office worker paid.

I placed the change on the tray.

He left.

I answered.

Yuzu: Cinnamon rolls. They are shiny.

Riko: Send picture.

I glanced back at Mara. She was not looking.

Probably.

I took a quick picture of the tray.

Riko: Pretty.

Riko: Did you make them pretty for me?

My cheeks warmed.

Yuzu: I made them pretty for customers.

Riko: I am a future customer.

Riko: Therefore for me.

That was not how logic worked.

It was, however, difficult to argue with someone who clearly had already built a little throne inside the conclusion and sat down.

Yuzu: Maybe one can be for you if there are leftovers.

Riko: I don’t want leftovers.

Riko: I want the one you think is best.

I stared at that longer than I should have.

The one I thought was best.

There was something very Riko about that. Not just wanting something. Wanting the special thing. The proof that a thought had been spent on her.

I did not recognize it as need.

Not really.

I only recognized that it made my chest feel warm and nervous, like I had been handed a tiny candle and told not to drop it.

Yuzu: Okay. I’ll save the best one if I can.

Riko: Good peach boy.

I made a sound that was not appropriate for customer service.

A woman entering the bakery stopped halfway through the door.

The morning became busy after that, which should have helped.

It did not help as much as I expected because Riko kept messaging me, and I kept answering.

Not every time.

Almost every time.

There was a difference.

Probably.

If I had dough on my hands, I waited until I washed them. If I was carrying a tray, I waited until I put it down. If a customer was speaking directly to me, I only glanced at the message instead of opening it, which was very restrained and adult of me. But the moment there was space, even a tiny space, I answered.

Riko: What are you doing now?

Yuzu: Wrapping milk buns.

Riko: Are they cute?

Yuzu: Very.

Riko: Cuter than me?

I froze with a paper sleeve halfway folded.

Yuzu: Different category.

Riko: Coward answer.

Yuzu: Diplomacy answer.

Riko: Cute coward.

I smiled so hard I folded the sleeve crooked.

Later:

Riko: Did anyone bother you?

Yuzu: No. Just normal customers.

Riko: If they bother you, tell me.

Yuzu: What would you do?

Riko: Depends on if they apologize fast.

I stared.

Yuzu: Please do not hit bakery customers with your bat.

Riko: What if they deserve it?

Yuzu: Still no.

Riko: You are strict.

Yuzu: I am responsible.

Riko: Responsible boys are fun to ruin.

I squeaked and closed the panel so fast I nearly closed it on my own finger.

Mara appeared beside me like she had teleported. “What did bat girl say?”

“Nothing.”

“Yuzu.”

“Something.”

“What kind of something?”

“Something that makes bread need my full attention.”

Mara looked at the loaf in my hands. “That is a dinner roll.”

“It has emotional depth.”

“It has sesame seeds.”

“Those can be deep.”

She stared at me until I retreated to the back under the perfectly legitimate excuse of checking the donation crates.

The problem was that I liked it.

Not the stress. Not the way my stomach jumped every time the system pinged. Not the little panic of maybe saying the wrong thing and making her stop. But the attention. The fact that someone wanted my answer right away. The fact that someone was thinking about me while I dusted shelves and counted crowns and wrapped pastries in paper.

Most people spent all day trying not to think about me.

Riko was very much thinking about me.

Maybe too much.

I did not know there was a too much yet.

By the time my break came, I had saved one cinnamon roll under a little cover in the back. The best one. Not the largest, because largest did not always mean best. This one had the neatest spiral, the glossiest center, and one little drip of glaze down the side that made it look like it had gotten too excited about being delicious.

I labeled the paper beneath it.

R.

Then I panicked, worried that was too obvious, crossed it out, and wrote “reserved.”

Then I panicked because reserved was more suspicious.

Then Mara leaned over my shoulder and said, “Subtle.”

I jumped. “It is for inventory purposes.”

“It is a cinnamon roll with a love rune.”

“That is not a love rune. That is an R.”

“For romance.”

“For Riko!”

Mara smiled slowly.

I realized my mistake.

“Oh crumbs.”

She hooked a thumb toward the alley door. “Break. Now. You and me.”

“I was going to eat.”

“You can eat while being interrogated.”

“That sounds bad for digestion.”

“Love advice usually is.”

The alley behind Hearthbell was narrow but clean, shaded by hanging herb boxes and a mana warmed vent that made it bearable even in cold weather. Employees took breaks there because the front was too public and the back was too full of ovens. I sat on an overturned crate with my knees together and my lunch in my lap leftover sweet bread, a little cheese, apple slices, and tea in a sealed cup. Mara leaned against the wall across from me, arms folded, hair tied up beneath a flour dusted scarf, looking like a woman who had decided I was a puzzle and unfortunately cared enough to solve me.

“So,” she said. “Riko.”

I took a very careful bite of bread.

“Mm hm.”

“Døll girl. Bat. Publicly alarming. Very pretty. Messages too much?”

I swallowed. “Not too much.”

Mara tilted her head.

“A normal amount maybe.”

“How many times has she messaged you since you came in?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened the panel and counted.

“Um.”

Mara sighed. “Yuzu.”

“Thirty seven.”

“In three hours?”

“Some were short.”

“That does not make it better.”

“It does a little?”

“No.”

I looked down at my lunch. “She’s just excited.”

“Maybe.”

“And I answer because it would be rude not to.”

Mara gave me a look.

“Also because I like answering,” I admitted.

I picked at the crust of my bread. “She touched my hand.”

Mara’s expression softened at once, which was unfair because I was trying very hard to be calm and normal and not make a whole cathedral out of hand holding on public transit.

“Yeah?” she asked.

I nodded.

“And that was good?”

My face warmed. “Very.”

“Scary?”

“Also very.”

Mara nodded like that made sense. Maybe it did. She was married, so maybe she understood all the secret relationship math that I had missed while being afraid of train doors and folding dough.

“What do I do?” I asked.

She blinked. “About what?”

“About… her. Messaging. Flirting. Saying things. Being close. Licking jam off my face.”

Mara’s expression did something complicated. “She what?”

“It was peach jam.”

“That was not the part I was asking about.”

I hunched. “It sounds worse when said out loud.”

“It does have a particular flavor.”

“Peach.”

“Yuzu.”

“Sorry.”

Mara rubbed her face with one hand. “Okay. Did you hate it?”

“No,” I said, then immediately stared at my shoes because that answer had escaped too fast. “I should have maybe hated it? It was very sudden. And public. And everyone looked. But I didn’t hate it. I think I liked it after I stopped almost dying.”

Mara was quiet for a moment.

That made me nervous.

Finally, she said, “Listen, I am going to say this as someone who spent two years being uselessly polite to my wife before she finally snapped and told me she had been trying to date me since the mushroom festival.”

I looked up. “Two years?”

“Lesbian courtship can be a tragic waste of everyone’s time.”

“That sounds inefficient.”

“It was. Deeply.” Mara pointed at me. “So I may be biased, but my advice? If you like her, don’t play games. Be clear. Be honest. If you want to see her, ask to see her. Direct girls usually appreciate direct answers.”

That sounded wise.

Very wise.

Possibly the wisest thing anyone had ever said in an alley full of herb boxes.

“What if I’m too much?” I asked quietly.

Mara frowned. “Yuzu.”

“What if answering too fast is weird?”

“Sweetheart, if someone is sending you thirty seven messages before noon, I do not think she is going to be frightened off by enthusiasm.”

That also sounded wise.

I took another bite of bread and nodded seriously.

“Be direct,” I said.

“Direct, but not stupid,” Mara added.

“Right. Direct but not stupid.”

“And do not let her hit customers.”

“I already said that.”

“Good.”

A ping arrived.

Riko: Did you abandon me?

My heart jumped.

I opened the panel immediately.

Yuzu: No! Break. Talking with Mara. Eating lunch.

Riko: Who is Mara?

I blinked.

Yuzu: Coworker. Friend. Married. Gives advice.

Riko: Advice about me?

I hesitated.

Mara watched my face. “What?”

“She asked if I’m getting advice about her.”

Mara’s brows rose. “Well?”

“I am.”

“Then say that.”

Direct.

Clear.

Yuzu: Yes. Relationship advice.

Three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Stopped.

Then:

Riko: Relationship.

Riko: Interesting word.

My tail curled around the crate leg.

Yuzu: Is that okay?

Riko: Depends.

Riko: What advice?

I glanced at Mara.

Mara shrugged. “Use your words.”

Mara shrugged. “Use your words.”

That sounded simple because Mara was married with a wife and a house and presumably a history of surviving conversations more complicated than asking whether someone wanted sliced bread. I, on the other hand, was sitting on an overturned crate in an alley behind a bakery, holding half a piece of sweet bread, while a beautiful Døll girl with a bat and terrifying confidence asked me what relationship advice I was receiving about her.

Words were suddenly very large.

I stared at the message.

Riko: What advice?

The three dots did not appear again.

She was waiting.

That made my stomach flutter in a way that was not completely fear. It was partly fear. A large part fear. Maybe fear with decorative sugar on top. But underneath it was something warm and helpless because Riko was waiting for my answer. Riko wanted to know what I was saying about her. Riko, who messaged too much and looked at me too sharply and smiled like she was daring the whole world to try taking her attention away.

I swallowed.

Mara watched me from across the alley.

That helped.

A little.

Yuzu: Mara said if I like you I should be direct.

I sent it before I could fold myself around the words until they suffocated.

For one second nothing happened.

Then three dots appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Stopped.

Riko: If?

My heart jumped.

I almost dropped the bread.

Yuzu: Not if.

Yuzu: I do like you.

Yuzu: A lot.

The alley became very quiet.

The bakery wall still hummed with oven warmth behind me. A cart rattled past the street entrance. But inside my head, everything stopped and stood around the message like it was a tiny lit candle in a very drafty room.

Riko did not answer immediately.

That was terrifying.

Then:

Riko: A lot is vague.

I made a tiny sound.

Mara’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“She says a lot is vague.”

Mara snorted. “She is not wrong.”

“She is extremely wrong. A lot is a perfectly useful measurement.”

“For flour, maybe.”

“I work in flour.”

“Yuzu.”

Right.

Words.

I looked down at the panel again. My fingers hovered. The problem with saying true things was that true things never arrived politely. They came all at once, bumping into each other, carrying little bags, tracking mud on the floor. I liked Riko. I wanted to see Riko again. I wanted her to keep messaging me, though maybe not during hot trays. I wanted to know why her eyes changed color when she looked sad. I wanted to know whether Dølls liked tea, or only pretended to like tea because people offered it in movies. I wanted to know if she had favorite songs, favorite pastries, favorite jokes. I wanted to know why she looked almost angry whenever she was soft. I wanted to know what made her feel safe.

I wanted Riko to feel safe.

I wanted that very badly.

Not because she seemed harmless. She did not. Riko seemed like a girl who would absolutely hit a vending golem with her bat if it gave me the wrong bun and then argue that the machine had started it. But there was something under all of that sharpness. Something hungry and frightened and too proud to ask for comfort without turning it into a dare.

Maybe I recognized that.

Maybe not the sharp part.

The hungry part.

I typed slowly.

Yuzu: I like you enough that I want to see you again.

Yuzu: Not just messages.

Yuzu: I mean I like the messages. A lot. Even when you are very distracting and make me almost drop cinnamon rolls.

Riko: Almost?

Yuzu: I saved them.

Riko: Hero.

Yuzu: Thank you. It was very dramatic.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Riko did not reply.

Yuzu: I want to know you.

Yuzu: I want to know what you like besides stealing jam from my face.

Yuzu: I want to know what makes you happy and what makes you sad and what makes your eyes go blue.

Yuzu: I want to know whether you like cinnamon or only like making me flustered.

Yuzu: I want to know what Døll emotions feel like from the inside if that is not too personal.

Yuzu: I want to know what name you would give a plant if you had one.

Yuzu: I want to know you, Riko.

My hands were shaking when I finished.

It was too much.

It had to be too much.

It was a whole loaf of feelings when she had only asked for a bite.

I looked at Mara.

She could not see the message, but maybe she saw my face.

Immediately, I regretted it.

Then I regretted regretting it because that felt rude to my own feelings.

Then I considered apologizing for sending it, which would have been very bad, so I shoved the last bite of bread into my mouth to stop myself.

Riko did not answer.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

A full minute.

My heart became soup.

Then the panel flashed.

Riko: Wow.

I winced.

Riko: You really just say things like that.

I swallowed bread too quickly and nearly choked.

Yuzu: Mara told me to use words.

Riko: Mara is dangerous.

Another pause.

Riko: My eyes go blue when I don’t know what I’m feeling.

My chest tightened.

Riko: Or when I do know and don’t want to.

Riko: Cinnamon is fine.

Riko: Making you flustered is better.

Riko: I would name a plant Knife.

I stared.

Then smiled so hard it hurt.

Yuzu: That is a terrible plant name.

Riko: Strong plant name.

Yuzu: Plants should have gentle names.

Riko: Fine.

Riko: Knife Charlie.

I gasped. “She threatened Charlie.”

Mara looked at me for a moment.

Then, very solemnly, she said, “Red flag.”

“I know. Charlie would be offended.”

Riko: Also.

Riko: I want to know you too.

The alley fell away.

Just for a second.

Just long enough that the cold air, the bakery heat, Mara’s presence, the lunch in my lap, all of it softened around that one message.

I want to know you too.

My throat tightened.

Yuzu: That makes me happy.

Riko: Cute.

Yuzu: It is.

Riko: I meant you.

I pressed the back of my hand over my mouth.

Mara smiled.

“Good?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Very good.”

“Then finish eating before the good turns your lunch cold.”

That was also wise.

Less romantic, but practical.

I tried to eat the rest of my lunch. Really tried. The apple slices tasted like excitement and terror. The cheese tasted like I had possibly just agreed to something very important without knowing what the rules were. The tea had gone lukewarm, but I drank it anyway because wasting tea seemed wrong.

Riko messaged twice more before break ended.

Riko: When do you get off?

Yuzu: Six.

Riko: Too late.

Yuzu: That is when work ends.

Riko: Work is selfish.

Yuzu: Work gives me money.

Riko: Fine. Work may live.

Then:

Riko: Bring my cinnamon roll.

My cinnamon roll.

I looked toward the bakery door.

The best roll was still inside, waiting under its little cover.

Yuzu: I will.

Riko: Good peach boy.

My face warmed again, but this time the warmth settled somewhere gentle instead of panicked.

Mara pushed off the wall. “Come on, peach boy. Back to work.”

I made a strangled noise. “You saw that?”

“You are not allowed to call me that.”

“I am absolutely allowed.”

“No. That is private.”

Mara’s grin sharpened. “Private? Interesting.”

“Oh crumbs.”

I followed her back inside, flustered enough that I bumped my horn on the doorframe and had to pretend it did not hurt.

The rest of the shift moved differently.

At six, I tucked the cinnamon roll carefully into a small paper box. The best one. I added a tiny Hearthbell sticker, then stared at it for too long.

The head baker passed behind me. “If you propose to a pastry, do it after closing.”

“I am not proposing to a pastry.”

“Good. It can do better.”

Mara laughed so hard she had to turn away.

I clutched the box to my chest. “Everyone is very mean today.”

“I regret telling you anything.”

“No, you don’t.”

I did not.

That was annoying.

Outside, evening had settled over New Avalon in violet and gold. Mana-lamps bloomed along the street. The bakery windows glowed behind me. My system panel pulsed with one waiting message.

Riko: Where are you?

Yuzu: Leaving now.

Riko: Slow.

Yuzu: I have your cinnamon roll.

Riko: Faster.

I smiled at the message like a ridiculous person and started walking.

Someone waiting for me.

For a boy who had spent most of his life trying to be harmless enough to tolerate, that felt dangerously close to a miracle.

So I walked faster.

Not too fast.

Responsible brisk walking.

But faster.

By the time I reached the corner and saw Riko leaning against a lamp post with her bat over one shoulder, flame hair bright beneath the mana-light, I was smiling so hard I forgot to be afraid for almost four whole breaths.

She looked at the box first.

Then at me.

“You brought it.”

“I said I would.”

Her expression flickered.

Something pleased.

Something startled.

Something hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.

I held it out.

“The best one.”

Riko took the box carefully, much more carefully than she handled almost anything else. She opened it, looked inside, and stared at the cinnamon roll like it had accused her of having feelings.

Then she shut the box.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m not eating it here.”

“Oh. Do you not like cinnamon rolls?”

“I like this one too much.”

My chest did something unsafe.

“That is not how food works.”

“It is now.”

She tucked the box under one arm, grabbed my hand with the other, and started walking like the matter was settled.

“Riko?”

“What?”

“Where are we going?”

She looked back at me, eyes glowing red and gold at once.

“To know each other.”