Chapter 2

I got up, winced because my hip had decided standing was betrayal, and fetched the little broom from beside the kitchenette. The crumb did not stand a chance. I swept it into the dustpan with the seriousness of clearing a dungeon boss. Then I noticed there were probably invisible crumbs. Invisible crumbs were the worst kind because they could be anywhere and no one respected their danger.

So I swept the whole floor.

Then I wiped the little kitchenette counter even though there was nothing on it except the kettle shaped like a fat bird and one spoon I had already washed yesterday. Then I wiped the spoon too because it had been watching me. Then I straightened the cookbooks on the shelf, even though they were already straight. I adjusted the jars by shade, pale yellow to deep amber, then decided that was too orderly and made me look like a person who sorted sugar while having feelings, so I rearranged them by size instead.

Better.

Maybe worse.

I cleaned the sink.

There was nothing in the sink.

I cleaned it anyway.

The whole apartment smelled faintly like lemon soap afterward, which felt nice and also slightly suspicious because lemon things felt like they were supposed to be mine somehow. Lemon soap. Lemon tarts. Lemon meringue eyes. Yuzu. It was a lot of citrus responsibility for one little oni.

“You understand,” I told Charlie, carrying him carefully from the windowsill so I could wipe beneath his pot. “Sometimes a boy needs to clean under his emotional support plant.”

Charlie’s leaves trembled.

Probably from being moved.

Possibly agreement.

I dusted the windowsill, then set him back exactly where he had been. Then I adjusted him because exactly where he had been looked crooked now. Then I adjusted him again because maybe he liked the first angle better.

“There,” I said.

Charlie looked unchanged.

“Perfect.”

The apartment was clean.

It had already been clean.

Now it was aggressively clean, which was different.

My hands still did not know what to do.

So I showered.

The bathroom was barely big enough to count as a room. It had a tiny standing shower, a toilet, a sink, and a mirror with a crack along one corner that made my left horn look bent. I liked it anyway. It was mine. The water took a few seconds to warm, as always. It came out cold first, then chilly, then acceptable, then finally hot enough to make my shoulders loosen all at once.

I stood under it and let the day come off.

Flour first. It ran from my hair in cloudy streaks, catching in the drain. Then sugar from my fingers. Ozone from Bolt Step. Street dust. Train smell. The faint waxy adhesive residue around the red square on my forearm. I scrubbed carefully there, not too hard, because the skin was sensitive and angry, but enough that the sticky feeling went away.

My tail needed more attention.

It always did.

Oni tails were smooth and lizard like, not fluffy or tufted or anything dramatic like some chimerin had. Mine was cream white like the rest of me, with yellow markings curling along it in soft bands. It was long enough to be useful and inconvenient in equal measure, tapering to a smooth point that liked knocking over things if I forgot where it was. I washed it slowly.

My horns got cleaned too. Carefully.

Then I looked down at myself because showers made mirrors foggy, but bodies were harder to ignore when there was nothing between me and me.

Small.

Always small.

Soft cream white skin, yellow accents along my wrists, hips, knees, tail, and the edges of my ears. Narrow shoulders. Slim waist. Flat stomach. Thin arms that stayed thin no matter how many trays I carried. Legs that looked more like dancer legs than fighter legs, and even that was generous because dancers had strength that showed. I had tried for muscle once. Really tried. Back when I was still adventuring and thought maybe if I trained hard enough, ate enough, pushed enough points into Strength, I would eventually look like the kind of oni people expected.

It had not worked.

Not really.

My body stayed petite. Lean. Pretty in a way that made people smile until they remembered what I was and got scared instead. I could get stronger, yes. The System was funny like that. Numbers mattered more than size if you had enough of them. But I never looked strong. Never broad. Never imposing. My cheeks stayed soft. My waist stayed too easy to grab. My face stayed cute enough that people either underestimated me or imagined something worse.

I touched my stomach and frowned.

“No abs,” I told the shower wall. “Rude.”

The shower wall had no opinion.

I did not want abs anyway.

Probably.

Maybe I wanted to want abs. That was different. Wanting to want something was a very annoying kind of wanting because it made you tired.

I rinsed off, turned the water a little hotter for ten more seconds because I deserved luxury, then shut it off before the boiler made its angry knocking noise. I dried myself carefully, especially my tail and horns, then changed into soft home clothes loose sleep shorts, an old oversized shirt with a faded Hearthbell logo, and warm socks with smiling bunnys on them.

Mara had given me the socks.

She said they were cursed.

They were not cursed.

Probably.

I padded back into the main room and looked at the kitchenette.

Dinner.

I should eat something real.

Not just leftover frosting.

Not that I had leftover frosting.

I definitely did not have a tiny container of lemon frosting in the back of the cooling box for emergencies.

That would be irresponsible.

I opened the cooling box and looked directly past the emergency frosting like a very mature person.

There was dough I had made yesterday. Tomato sauce in a jar. Fresh mozzarella wrapped in brine. Basil leaves in a little cup of water by the window.

Margherita pizza, then.

Simple. Cozy. Hard to ruin unless I forgot it under the broiler, which had only happened twice and one of those times I was reading a very dramatic chapter.

I stretched the dough on the little floured board, pressing it out carefully with my fingertips. The motion was soothing. Similar to bakery work but smaller. Private. No customers watching. No tray for coins. No gloves. Just clean hands and soft dough and the little pleasure of making something for myself because I was also a person who deserved dinner.

Tomato sauce went on next, bright red and sweet with garlic. Then torn mozzarella. Then basil. Then a drizzle of oil and a sprinkle of salt. I slid it onto the little oven stone and crouched in front of the glass to watch the crust puff.

Charlie watched from the windowsill.

“You cannot have pizza,” I told him.

Charlie did not object.

“You do photosynthesis. That is already very impressive.”

The cheese bubbled. The crust blistered at the edges. The basil darkened slightly and made the whole room smell green and warm and alive.

I liked cooking vegetarian food.

Not vegan. Vegan would have been too much work, and I was already doing my best as a person with a job, stairs, and emotional crumbs. Cheese was important. Eggs were important. Butter was extremely important. I respected people who could give all of that up, but I was not made of that much discipline.

Meat was different.

I used to like meat.

I still liked the taste, honestly, which made it worse. Crispy chicken skin. Pepper sausage. Charred monster boar with apple glaze. Little skewers from street carts that smelled so good they could make someone turn around half a block later. I liked all of it.

I just hated thinking about where it came from.

Even when it was sourced properly. Even when it was monster meat from a creature that would absolutely have eaten me first if given the chance. Even when people explained that dungeon ecology was different, and food chains were food chains, and I should not feel guilty for eating dinner.

I still did.

Not in a big dramatic way. Not in a better than anyone way. I did not think other people were bad for eating meat. I made meat pies at the bakery sometimes and they came out very pretty. Mom probably would have eaten half a cow and thanked it by name. Lots of people needed meat. Lots of people loved it. That was okay.

But for me, every bite came with a tiny sad thought attached.

So eventually I stopped.

One less thing to feel guilty about.

That made me happy.

Small happy, but happy.

The pizza came out perfect.

Almost perfect.

One side was a little more browned than the other, but that was called rustic if you were confident enough. I cut it into four slices, put it on my one good plate, and carried it to the bed because tonight was a bed dinner night. Some people might say eating pizza in bed was how crumbs happened.

Those people were correct.

But I had already swept.

Therefore, legally, I was allowed.

I opened my system panel with a flick of my fingers. Pale light unfolded above me, soft enough not to hurt my eyes. I dimmed the room lamps until the apartment became blue and gold, city glow at the window, panel light overhead, pizza steam curling in front of my face.

“Movie night,” I told Charlie.

Charlie remained by the window.

“Don’t look so excited. You’ll embarrass us both.”

I scrolled through the romance category first.

Action romance. Dungeon romance. Tragic romance. Vampire romance. Knight romance. Historical romance where everyone looked damp and serious. A musical about two rival potion brewers who fell in love during a licensing dispute. That one was tempting. But I wanted something soft tonight. Something where people held hands in gardens and misunderstandings got solved before anyone had to throw themselves off a tower.

I picked a movie called When the Lanterns Bloom.

The preview showed a quiet girl who repaired magical streetlights and a traveling bard who wrote songs about places he did not stay. There were glowing flowers, rain scenes, and at least one shot of someone almost confessing feelings on a bridge. Perfect.

I set the projection to ceiling mode, turned off the last lamp, and lay on my back with the plate balanced carefully on my stomach.

The movie began above me.

Painted light washed across the slanted ceiling. A city very unlike New Avalon, all canals and lantern vines, bloomed into view. The heroine climbed a ladder to repair a broken lamp while muttering to herself about irresponsible maintenance. The bard appeared below, playing a song badly on purpose to make her laugh. She dropped a wrench. He caught it. Their eyes met.

I sighed around my first bite of pizza.

“Oh, they’re doomed.”

The crust was crisp at the edge and soft in the middle. Tomato bright. Cheese warm and stretchy. Basil fragrant enough that one very large leaf slid free with the bite and stuck halfway out of my mouth.

I froze.

My eyes shifted toward the window.

Charlie sat there, innocent and leafy.

I slowly pulled the basil leaf into my mouth and chewed.

“Sorry,” I said after swallowing.

Then I realized I had apologized to my plant for eating a completely different plant.

I stared at Charlie.

Charlie stared back with no eyes.

I started laughing.

Just a tired little giggle that broke loose and kept going until I had to put the plate down so I did not drop melted cheese on my shirt.

“I’m sorry,” I wheezed. “I’m sorry. That was ridiculous. You are not related. Probably. Oh crumbs, what if all plants are cousins?”

Charlie’s new leaf trembled in the draft.

“Don’t judge me. I had a hard day.”

The movie continued.

The lantern girl pretended she did not like the bard. The bard pretended he did not keep coming back to the same district because of her. They were both very bad at pretending. I told Charlie this. Charlie listened with the patience of a saint.

“He’s going to write a song about her hands,” I said, pointing a pizza crust at the ceiling. “Watch. He keeps looking at them. That’s songwriter behavior.”

Ten minutes later, the bard wrote a song about the way she lit the world with careful fingers.

“I knew it.”

Charlie said nothing.

“Exactly. Predictable, but in a comforting way.”

The room grew warmer under the blanket. The movie light moved over my face in soft colors. I ate two slices, then a third, then saved the fourth because future Yuzu deserved pizza too. The heroine and the bard finally stood on the bridge from the preview, rain falling around them in silver lines. He confessed he had written thirty seven songs about her and only lied about twenty of the titles. She kissed him first.

My chest ached.

Good ache.

Bad ache.

Both.

I liked romance movies because they hurt safely.

Usually.

Some dramas were mean.

I did not watch those twice.

I watched the lantern girl lean her forehead against the bard’s shoulder and imagined, just for a little while, what it might feel like to be wanted gently. Not feared first. Not tolerated. Not treated like a risk assessment with horns.

Just wanted.

My eyes got heavy before the movie ended.

I tried to stay awake because it was rude to abandon fictional people before their happy ending, but the bed was soft and the room was dark and the patch was off and my body had finally noticed that being thrown onto stone counted as tiring.

“Charlie,” I mumbled, “tell me if they break up.”

Charlie did not answer.

The ceiling blurred.

The bard was singing under lantern flowers.

The heroine was smiling.

The city in the movie glowed.

So did mine, faintly, through the window.

I fell asleep on my back with one hand near the plate, tail curled over the blanket, and the projection painting slow golden light over the ceiling.

Morning arrived as a pale stripe across my face.

I woke with a snort.

For one horrifying second, I thought I was late.

Then I saw the system clock and realized I was only almost late.

Different.

Important difference.

“Oh crumbs.”

I sat up too fast, regretted it because my hip was still bruised, then scrambled into motion. The movie panel had timed out sometime during the night. The plate sat safely on the little stool beside the bed. One cold pizza crust remained because apparently sleepy Yuzu had eaten the fourth slice after all and left only evidence.

“Traitor,” I told the crust.

Then I picked it up and dropped it into the compost bin under the sink, where bakery scraps, tea leaves, fruit peels, and other noble leftovers waited to become useful dirt. The city collected compost twice a week for roof gardens and public planters. I liked that. Even mistakes could become flowers if handled properly.

Plate in sink.

Water over plate.

Soap later.

No time.

I dressed quickly, hopping on one foot while pulling on trousers, nearly falling into the laundry basket, apologizing to it, then deciding I did not have time. Work shirt. Tie. Coat. Socks. Boots. Hair finger combed into something fluffy but acceptable. Horns polished with the corner of my sleeve.

Breakfast.

I grabbed the sweet loaf I had brought home from Hearthbell, the one with the soft braided top and tiny sugar crystals tucked into the crust. I cut a thick slice, then spread peach jam over it in a shining orange layer. Too much jam. No such thing. I took a bite while standing at the counter.

Soft bread.

Sweet peach.

Good morning.

Maybe.

I wrapped the rest in paper to eat on the way and hurried to the door.

“Bye, Charlie. Be brave. Do crimes.”

Charlie stayed where he was, probably plotting.

I locked the door, rushed down the hall, reached the stairs, got halfway to the fifth floor, and stopped so hard my tail smacked the railing.

Patch.

My blood went cold.

“No no no no no.”

I ran back up the stairs, nearly tripped on the top step, fumbled my key charm so badly the lock rejected me once out of spite, then burst into my apartment.

The suppressant patch sat on the disposal strip.

Used.

Useless.

For one terrible second, I just stared at it.

Then I remembered the fresh pack in the desk drawer.

“Right. Right. Responsible drawer. Good drawer.”

I yanked the drawer open, grabbed a new patch, peeled the backing with shaking fingers, and slapped it onto my forearm.

The runes blinked red once, then amber as they found contact.

Working.

Safe.

I exhaled so hard my knees wobbled.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Patch on. Boy safe. Bread acquired. Still maybe not late.”

Charlie’s leaf shifted.

“Do not tell anyone.”

I grabbed my bag, checked the patch again, checked it a third time, and ran for the door.

The city was waiting.

Work was waiting.

The world was probably still mean.

But I had peach jam on my thumb, Charlie had a new leaf, and I had remembered the patch before reaching the street.

Small victories counted.

They had to.

The second time I left the apartment, I checked the patch at the door.

Amber.

Working.

Then at the stairs.

Still amber.

Then again in the lobby, because apparently my hand had decided it was a very anxious little inspector.

Still amber.

“Okay,” I whispered. “We understand. The patch exists.”

My forearm did not answer, which was good because if my forearm started answering then I was definitely calling out sick.

The morning air outside hit cooler than expected, carrying the smells of rain wet stone, tram sparks, breakfast carts, and someone frying corndogs three streets away with criminal confidence. New Avalon was already awake in all the ways New Avalon was always awake: loud, vertical, too crowded, and so pretty it felt unfair. Mana lamps dimmed as the natural light strengthened, gargoyles shifted on high ledges, delivery sprites zipped between balcony gardens, and living vines curled lazily around old brass railings as if the city itself had hit snooze and decided to grow through the inconvenience.

I hurried toward the station with my sweet bread wrapped in paper and my work bag bouncing against my hip.

Nothing hurt.

That was nice.

Yesterday had been awful, but oni bodies were stubborn. By morning, the bruises from the platform had already faded into faint yellow shadows under my skin, then disappeared entirely sometime between showering and realizing I had forgotten my patch. My shoulder moved fine. My hip did not complain. My tail swayed behind me with only the usual amount of dramatic personality. It should have made me feel better.

It did.

Mostly.

My body was healed.

My nerves had apparently missed the meeting.

Every time I thought about the train doors, my stomach folded itself into a tiny worried pastry.

(I’m okay.)

(Different train. Different morning. No one is throwing anyone today. Probably. Statistically, most train rides do not involve being thrown.)

That was not as comforting as I wanted.

A system window opened as I reached the station entrance.

[System Notice]

Morning Anxiety Detected.

Suggested Solution: Return to Adventuring.

[System Notice]

Daily Quest Available: Return to Adventuring!

Objective: Stop pretending pastry is a personality and go risk your life somewhere with screaming.

Reward: 100 attribute points.

(Dice: Good morning, tiny thunder bun. Still making bread? Still letting random train men throw you around? Fascinating life choices. Terrible pacing.)

I groaned. “Not now.”

A woman passing beside me glanced over.

I smiled too quickly. “Sorry. System thing.”

She walked faster.

Fair.

The panel followed me anyway, floating at the edge of my vision as I tapped my pass charm at the turnstile.

[System Suggestion]

Recommended Career Adjustment: Adventurer

Current Level: 10

Class: Elemental Slip

Known Affinities: Lightning, Wind, Water, Heat, Mist

Combat Viability: Higher than self esteem suggests.

(Dice: You know what pays better than frosting buns? Dungeon loot. You know what entertains me more than you politely recommending milk bread to grandmothers? Watching you turn into lightning and stab something that deserves it. Think about my needs for once.)

“I like baking,” I muttered.

(Dice: I know. That is the tragedy. You have a rogue variant with multi element mobility and you voluntarily chose customer service.)

“People need bread.”

(Dice: People also need ****. I provide a balanced ecosystem.)

I flicked the panel away with two fingers, but it only minimized into a smug little red and white card in the corner of my vision.

“You are a god. Go bother someone invading a volcano.”

(Dice: I can multitask.)

The platform was crowded enough that my horns immediately became a navigation hazard. I tucked my head down, tail curled close, work bag held against my front, and waited near a pillar wrapped in ivy. The sweet bread was still in my hand. I took a nervous bite and got peach jam on my thumb.

I licked it off.

Then panicked for half a second because licking my thumb in public felt like something people might judge.

Then I remembered normal people licked jam off their fingers all the time.

Probably.

Maybe normal people used napkins.

I did not have a napkin.

The train arrived with a warm hum, runes lighting along its side in lines of soft blue. My heart jumped. The doors opened. People began boarding.

I waited for the rush to thin, then stepped in.

I found a place near the middle of the car, away from the doors but not trapped in a corner, wrapped my tail around my ankles so it would not get stepped on, and held the rail with one hand. The train chimed. The doors slid shut. We started moving.

Good.

Very good.

Extremely good and normal and not a big deal.

I breathed out slowly.

[System Notice]

Congratulations! You entered a train.

(Dice: Stunning progress. Truly legendary. Shall I prepare a parade, or would that be too stimulating?)

I glared at the translucent panel.

“I am ignoring you.”

(Dice: You are whispering at me on public transit.)

“I am ignoring you quietly.”

(Dice: That is called losing with manners.)

I stared harder at the window.

The city slid past in pieces: old tile tunnels, glass root supports, a sudden flash of open sky between elevated lines, castle balconies bolted onto the shoulders of ancient towers, rooftop gardens hanging over streets far below. I loved the view from the train. It made New Avalon look stitched together rather than broken. Ruins, trees, steel, magic, stone, all of it layered into something that should not work and did anyway.

Then the system panel expanded again, smug and red edged.

(Dice: You could be blinking through shadows and electrocuting bandits. Instead you are worried about being late to fold dough. I am not angry. I am just disappointed in your commitment to boring me.)

“I like folding dough,” I whispered.

(Dice: That sentence is a cry for help.)

“It is not.”

(Dice: It absolutely is.)

I was so busy mentally arguing with a god that I did not notice the girl until she was directly in front of me.

A cool hand touched my chin.

My whole body locked.

Someone leaned in.

A tongue swept across the corner of my mouth and licked the peach jam from my face.

For one impossible second, I could not think at all.

She leaned back with a satisfied little hum, as if she had just sampled frosting from a spoon.

“Peach,” she said. “Cute.”

I stared.

She was a Døll.

That was the first thing my brain managed to assemble after the lightning strike of public humiliation. Not human. Not chimerin. Not vampire. Døll. Porcelain white skin, too smooth and too perfect, faintly translucent at the throat and wrists where soft cyan light pulsed beneath the surface like a heartbeat made of moonlit water. Her body had fine seams along the arms, ribs, and collar, delicate blue lines that looked less like cracks and more like someone had drawn circuitry into a marble statue.

Her hair was the second thing.

Bright red orange, cut in sharp playful layers around her face and pulled into a high, messy tail that burst upward and back like a flame caught in a hair tie. There were streaks in it too, white and orange yellow, vivid enough to look painted. Her eyes glowed red, lit from within, artificial and alive at the same time. She had small fangs, a black collar like structure at her neck, and a grin that looked like trouble had learned to be adorable.

Her clothes did not help.

She wore a cropped jacket thrown open over a synthetic white body marked with black and cyan panels, like fashion had collided with old world combat robotics and both had decided to flirt. The jacket was bright, casual, and loud, the kind of blue that refused to apologize for being seen. A narrow yellow band wrapped her chest like a top, paired with very short black shorts, fishnet sleeves, and one hand in a black glove. A baseball bat rested over her shoulder, red and metallic with glowing accents, held like it was both weapon and accessory.

Everything about her looked designed to be noticed.

Everything about her looked like she knew it.

My mouth opened.

Nothing useful came out.

“That was my face,” I finally said.

Her grin widened. “Yes.”

“You licked my face.”

“Yes.”

“In public.”

“Yes.”

I looked around.

People were staring.

A knight near the door had one eyebrow raised. A student was pretending to read while absolutely not reading. Two office workers had frozen mid conversation. A dwarf with a lunch pail looked like this was the best thing that had happened all week.

My horns warmed.

“I have work,” I blurted.

The Døll blinked once.

Then smiled again. “Okay.”

I waited.

She did not move.

“I mean I need to go to work.”

“Yes.”

“So I cannot be… whatever this is.”

“I can be quick.”

My soul stepped politely out of my body and left me there to handle the situation alone.

“That is not better.”

“It is efficient.”

“Efficiency is not always the goal!”

She tilted her head as if considering that for the first time and not liking it very much.

“What is your name?” I asked, because apparently manners were what survived when panic burned everything else down.

“Riko.”

The name appeared in a little contact window a heartbeat later.

Contact Request: Riko

Species: Døll

Mood: Curious

Status: Available

Notes: Peach boy located.

“Peach boy?” I whispered.

Riko looked at the panel, then at me, then tapped the note field with one finger.

Notes: Cute peach boy located.

“That is worse,” I said.

“My name is Yuzu.”

“I know.”

She pointed at my work bag.

My employee tag was clipped to the strap.

Right.

I had done that.

“Oh,” I said.

Riko’s eyes brightened. “You say oh very nicely.”

“I do not know what that means.”

“I do.”

I looked toward the train map. Two stops until Hearthbell’s district. Maybe three if the local line paused at Wyrmbridge. The system clock glowed in the corner of my vision, reminding me that I was not late yet, but I was living dangerously close to late, which was worse because hope was still involved.

“I really do have work,” I said again.

Riko stepped closer instead of away.

She smelled faintly of rainwater, metal, and some perfume that reminded me of cherries. Not human. Not organic exactly. No sweat. No fear smell. No flinch.

That made me realize something.

My hand drifted to my patch.

Riko watched the motion.

Her grin softened by half an inch.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

“I’m not worrying.”

“You are worrying so loudly I can almost hear it through my teeth.”

“I don’t think that is how teeth work.”

“My teeth are very advanced.”

I did not know how to answer that, so I did what I always did and looked at my sleeve.

“The patch is working,” I said quickly. “It’s been on since before I left home. I checked it. I always check. I’m not I mean, I didn’t do anything.”

Riko’s expression changed.

Only a little.

The red glow in her eyes dimmed toward amber, then flickered cyan at the edges. Her playfulness did not vanish, but something underneath it shifted sharper. Interested, yes, but also annoyed in a direction I did not understand.

“Dølls are immune to all that pheromone stuff,” she said.

I blinked.

“You are?”

“Mhm.” She leaned closer, tapping one finger against the glowing seam at her throat. “I'm synthetic dummy. Your biology cannot make me want you.”

My breath caught.

“Oh.”

Her grin returned, bright and wicked. “So I am flirting with you because you’re cute.”

I forgot how to hold the rail.

My hand slipped.

Riko caught it.

My thoughts scattered.

It had been so long since someone touched me like that.

Not by accident. Not with disgust. Not to inspect my patch. Not to push me away.

Just touched me.

My throat tightened.

“You are very direct,” I said, because saying please don’t let go seemed like too much.

“Yes.”

“Is that a Døll thing?”

“It is a Riko thing.” She paused. “Maybe also a Døll thing. We were made to understand longing and then abandoned with too much of it. Sometimes it comes out weird.”

“That is… a lot for train conversation.”

“I like starting in the middle.”

“I noticed.”

Her thumb brushed over my knuckles.

My patch itched.

Riko glanced at it again. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s just uncomfortable.”

“Then take it off.”

My eyes widened. “I cannot take it off on a train!”

“Why?”

“Because that would be incredibly illegal. And frightening. And irresponsible. And I would lose my job. And possibly get arrested. And maybe someone would scream.”

Riko considered this.

“Bad reasons,” she said.

“They are very good reasons.”

“They are reasons other people put on you.”

“They are still real.”

That made her stop.

For a moment, her eyes flickered red again. Not desire. Not anger exactly. Something more unstable. A feeling looking for a place to land.

Then she smiled too quickly.

“Fine,” she said. “Keep your sad sticker.”

“It is not sad.”

“It looks sad.”

“It is medical.”

“Medical things can be sad.”

I wanted to argue, but unfortunately she was right.

The train slowed at the next station. A few passengers got off. More got on. Riko did not release my hand. I was becoming extremely aware of that. Also extremely aware that people were still looking, though now most of them were doing the polite city version of looking, which meant pretending they were absolutely not memorizing every detail.

“People are staring,” I whispered.

Riko looked around.

A few people looked away.

She looked back at me. “Let them.”

“That is easy for you to say. You have a bat.”

She lifted the bat slightly from her shoulder. “Do you want one?”

“No!”

“You might feel better.”

“I work in a bakery.”

“Bat baker. Strong brand.”

I laughed.

I did not mean to.

It came out small and startled and stupidly real.

Riko froze.

Her grip tightened once around my hand, just a little too hard, then loosened immediately. Her eyes flared gold, bright and hungry and almost frightened.

“I like that sound,” she said.

My face burned again. “My laugh?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a normal sound.”

“No.” She said it with complete confidence. “I like yours.”

I looked down at our hands.

The train window reflected us faintly. Me, small and cream white with yellow horns, patch blinking amber beneath my sleeve, work bag clutched too close. Her, porcelain and red eyed and bright haired, bat over one shoulder, body marked with glowing seams, smiling like she had found something and might bite anyone who tried to take it.

Cute.

Dangerous.

Impossible.

My station announcement chimed.

I jumped. “Oh crumbs. This is me.”

Riko looked at the door. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

The doors opened, and somehow she was still holding my hand as we stepped onto the platform. She moved like she expected the crowd to make room for her, and the crowd mostly did. Not because she was large. She was not. She was only a little taller than me, maybe not even by much, though she carried herself with enough confidence to feel taller. People moved because her grin said she might make not moving interesting.

I hurried beside her, panic returning in pieces.

“I’m going to be late.”

“You are not late yet.”

“That is the most stressful part.”

Riko’s boots clicked against the station tile. “You are very cute under pressure.”

“That is not helpful.”

“It helps me.”

“I meant helpful to me!”

“Oh.” She thought about it. “Run?”

So we ran.

Not fast fast. Not Bolt Step. Just a ridiculous hurried trot through the station, me clutching my work bag and half wrapped sweet bread, Riko laughing beside me with her bat bouncing lightly against her shoulder. Her hair streamed behind her in red orange spikes and white streaks, and for a few seconds the morning became something absurd instead of frightening.

We reached street level with three minutes to spare.

Hearthbell Bakery sat ahead with its warm windows and little bell shaped sign swinging gently above the door. The sight of it made my chest loosen.

Work.

Normal.

Dough and trays and Mara teasing me and the head baker pretending he was not kind.

I stopped at the corner, breathless.

Riko stopped too.

For one second, neither of us said anything.

Then she stepped in front of me and looked directly at my face. “You still have peach.”

I wiped my mouth quickly. “Where?”

She leaned closer.

I froze.

This time she did not lick me.

She touched the corner of my mouth with her thumb, wiped away a tiny smear of jam, then put her thumb in her own mouth while maintaining eye contact like she had just made a legal declaration of war on my ability to function.

My brain turned into warm custard.

“Riko.”

“Yes?”

“That is very embarrassing.”

“Yes.”

“I have work.”

“You keep saying that like it protects you.”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

A system ping chimed.

Riko: Contact test.

Riko: Your face is still tasty.

Riko: This is flirting.

Riko: I am clarifying because sometimes people get confused.

I stared at the messages, then at her.

“You are standing right here.”

“Yes.”

“You messaged me from two feet away.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To make sure it worked.”

Another ping.

Riko: It works.

I laughed again, helplessly.

Riko’s eyes lit gold.

Then, just as quickly, something **** slipped under her grin. So fast I might have missed it if I had not already been looking. She wanted the laugh. Wanted the proof that she had made me happy. Wanted it too much. Wanted it in a way that felt like reaching for a candle with both hands.

“Can I message you later?” she asked.

My answer came out softer than I expected.

“Yes.”

Her smile sharpened again, but not completely. The **** thing stayed behind it, peeking through.

“Good.”

“I may be working, though.”

“I can be distracting quietly.”

“I do not believe that.”

“I can try.”

“I also do not believe that.”

“Smart peach boy.”

“I am not peach boy.”

“You were peach boy when I found you.”

“Origin story.”

I covered my face with one hand.

She made a pleased sound.

The bakery door opened, and Mara poked her head out. Her eyes went from me to Riko, then to our joined hands, then to Riko’s bat, then back to me.

“Yuzu,” Mara said slowly. “Are you being kidnapped?”

“No!” I said quickly.

Riko tilted her head. “Not currently.”

“Riko!”

Mara’s eyebrows climbed.

I pulled my hand back, not because I wanted to, but because I suddenly remembered I had coworkers and a timecard and a life that could not survive this much public weirdness before breakfast.

“I’m coming,” I said to Mara. “Sorry. Almost late, but not actually late.”

“That distinction still only matters to you,” Mara said, but she was smiling.

Riko leaned toward me. “Go make pretty bread.”

“Pastries too.”

“Send pictures.”

“Of pastries?”

“Among other options.”

“Riko.”

She grinned.

I backed toward the bakery door, face hot, patch itching, heart doing something too complicated for a work morning.

Riko lifted her bat in a cheerful little salute.

I should have been more scared.

Maybe I was.

But when I stepped inside Hearthbell, tied on my apron, and saw another message blink in the corner of my vision, I smiled before I could stop myself.

Riko: Work hard, Yuzu.

Riko: I want to taste what you make next.

Riko: That was also flirting.

Riko: Mostly.

Mara leaned over my shoulder.

I yelped and shoved the panel closed.

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Then Mara’s eyes narrowed.

“Yuzu,” she said.

I froze with one hand on my apron tie. “Yes?”

She looked from my face to the door, then to the place where Riko had been standing outside the window a second ago. Riko was still there, actually. She had not left. She was leaning against the brick beside Hearthbell’s front window with her bat over one shoulder, watching the shop through the glass like a cat watching a birdhouse. When she saw me glance over, she smiled and lifted two fingers in a bright little wave.

My heart did something deeply unprofessional.

Mara followed my gaze, then slowly looked back at me. “Take the day off.”

I blinked.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I just got here.”

The head baker came out from the back wiping flour from his hands, looked at me, looked at Mara, looked through the window at Riko, then turned around as if he had decided this was above his pay grade and dough would never emotionally ambush him like this.

“Mara,” I whispered, trying to sound very serious and responsible. “I cannot just take off work because a pretty girl licked jam off my face.”

Mara stared at me.

I stared back.

Then I realized what I had said.

“Oh crumbs.”

Riko appeared at the doorway like she had been summoned by poor life choices. “He accepts.”

I squeaked.

Riko stepped inside just far enough for the bell to chime over her head, porcelain skin catching the bakery light, red orange hair bright against the warm wood shelves. She pointed at me with the end of her bat, not threateningly, more like she was identifying a pastry she had chosen. “He wants to accept. His mouth is just scared.”

“My mouth is not scared.”

Riko’s eyes flicked to my lips. “It should be. I’m very intimidating.”

Mara made a sound into her hand.

I looked at her in betrayal. “Do not laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” Mara lied.

Mara pointed at me. “You need a day off. You had a bad day yesterday, you came in looking like a startled cream puff, and now the first person I’ve seen make you smile without also making you apologize is standing in my doorway.”

I clutched my apron strings. “But the honey twists.”

“I can do honey twists,” Mara said.

“The lemon buns need ”

“I can do lemon buns.”

“The donation loaves ”

“Yuzu.”

I closed my mouth.

Mara’s voice softened just a little. “Go have a nice day.”

A nice day.

The words felt bigger than they should have.

I looked toward the back. Toward the ovens. Toward the safe rhythm of work, dough, trays, sugar, heat. Then toward the front door, where Riko stood.

I should have said no.

Probably.

Maybe.

Instead, I untied the apron.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Riko’s smile flashed so bright it almost looked victorious.

Mara took the apron from my hands before I could change my mind. “Go before I decide to be responsible and ask questions.”

“Should you ask questions?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you going to?”

“No, because I am tired and this is the most interesting thing that has happened in nine months.”

“That is not comforting!”

Mara called after us, “Have fun, Yuzu.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” I called.

Riko glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Riko!”

She laughed and tugged me into New Avalon morning.

The city seemed different with her hand around mine.

Not safer exactly. Riko did not make things safe. Riko made things sharp and bright and unpredictable. But people looked at us differently when she was there. Maybe because she looked like the kind of person who might enjoy being challenged. Maybe because of the bat. Maybe because she stared back when people stared first.

I noticed when a man’s eyes flicked to my horns, then my patch, then our joined hands.

Riko noticed too.

She smiled at him.

Not nicely.

He looked away.

“That was mean,” I whispered.

“He started it.”

“He looked.”

“He looked badly.”

“There are different kinds of looking?”

“Yes.” Riko swung our hands slightly between us. “I like mine best.”

I glanced up at her. “What kind is yours?”

She did not answer immediately.

Riko looked ahead, red orange hair bouncing. Her fingers remained tangled with mine, casual and tight at the same time.

“Hungry,” she said finally.

My face warmed. “Oh.”

“Not food hungry.”

“I understood.”

“Good.”

“I wish I did not.”

“Also good.”

The date began with breakfast, which was funny because I had already eaten sweet bread and peach jam, but Riko decided that did not count because “panic bread is not breakfast.” She dragged me to a street cart shaped where a elf woman sold fried dough spirals dusted in sugar and little cups of spiced apple cream. Riko bought two without asking what I wanted, then shoved one into my hands with the serious expression of someone performing emergency medicine.

“I am vegetarian,” I said quickly.

Riko blinked. “It is dough.”

“I know. I just say that sometimes before food because people offer meat things and then it gets awkward.”

“Do people throw meat at you often?”

“No.”

“Should they?”

“No!”

She looked vaguely disappointed. “Fine. No meat throwing.”

The fried spiral was hot enough to burn my fingertips through the paper, crisp at the edges and soft inside, with apple cream melting into the ridges. I took a bite and made a small involuntary sound.

Riko froze.

I looked up with my mouth full.

Her eyes were gold again.

“What?” I asked after swallowing.

“You make good noises.”

“I am eating.”

“Yes.”

“Food makes food noises happen.”

“Yours are good.”

“That is not how compliments work.”

“It worked. You’re pink.”

I touched my cheek. “That is because the dough is hot.”

“Lie.”

“It is a little because the dough is hot.”

She leaned closer. “And the rest?”

I shoved another bite into my mouth so I would not have to answer.

Riko looked delighted.

After that, she decided we needed to walk, which was also not really a decision because she had already started walking and I was still holding her hand. We wandered through a morning market tucked beneath the ribs of an old elevated rail line where vines had grown thick enough to make a green ceiling overhead. Vendors called out from stalls built into rusted train arches. There were charm bracelets made from old subway tokens, glass jars full of fireflys, carved wooden masks, little clockwork beetles that carried business cards, and stacks of secondhand books sorted by “safe,” “probably cursed,” and “ask before opening.”

Riko stopped at every stall that looked interesting.

Which was every stall.

She tried on a hat with a feather taller than my horns and asked if it made her look trustworthy.

“No,” I said honestly.

“Perfect.”

She put it back.

At a jewelry stall, she held up a necklace of tiny copper bells to my throat without warning, then frowned.

“Too loud,” she said.

“I did not ask for bells.”

“You need a sound.”

“I have several.”

“Most of them are apologies.”

That one hit a little too close.

I looked down at the display.

Riko noticed. Her face flickered, red eyes dimming toward uncertain amber, then she reached past the bells and picked up a small enamel pin shaped like a yellow fruit with a smiling face.

“This,” she said.

“That is a lemon.”

“Yuzu.”

“It is still a lemon.”

“Close enough.”

“It has a face.”

“So do you.”

I did not know how to argue with that.

She bought it and immediately pinned it to the strap of my work bag. Her fingers were careful. Too careful, suddenly, like she was afraid the moment might break if she moved too fast. When she finished, she tapped the pin once.

“There. Proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“That I found you.”

My chest tightened.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is romantic if you say it correctly.”

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Riko saw it and looked pleased in a way that was almost too bright, like a lamp turned up until the glass threatened to crack.

We kept walking.

At a little plaza where old stone lions had been repurposed into planters, a group of children were feeding bread crumbs to paper pigeons. The birds folded and unfolded themselves with every hop, tiny mana sigils flashing along their wings. One landed on my horn. I went perfectly still while Riko laughed so hard she had to lean on her bat.

“Do not encourage it,” I whispered.

The paper pigeon pecked gently at the tip of my horn.

“I think it likes you,” Riko said.

“I am not bird food.”

“You might be bird furniture.”

“That is worse.”

One of the children asked if I was a demon prince because I had horns and a bird crown. I told her no, I was a bakery assistant, which was almost the same thing but with more flour. She accepted that very seriously. Riko watched me talk to the children with an expression I did not understand.

“What?” I asked when we left the plaza.

“You’re nice.”

I blinked. “I try.”

“No. You are.” Her mouth tightened like the words bothered her. “It’s weird.”

“Nice is weird?”

“Usually fake.”

“Oh.” I thought about that. “Sometimes people are nice because they want something. Sometimes people are nice because being mean feels bad. Sometimes people are nice because if everyone is a little nice then things hurt less.”

Riko stared at me.

I stared back.

Then I looked away because eye contact was suddenly too much.

“That sounded preachy,” I said. “Sorry.”

“No,” she said.

The word came out sharp.

I flinched.

Riko’s grip tightened on my hand. “Don’t apologize for that.”

I looked at her.

Her eyes were red again. Not glowing bright. Low red.

“Okay,” I said softly.

She looked away first.

We went to the skybridge gardens after that.

Riko said she hated flowers because they were “needy little drama organs,” but she still stopped to smell every blue rose we passed and threatened one vine when it snagged her jacket. I introduced her to the idea of ranking flowers by how likely they were to be secretly plotting. She took this extremely seriously.

“Roses are obvious criminals,” she said.

“Agreed.”

“Lilies are pretending innocence.”

“Absolutely.”

“Sunflowers are too tall. Suspicious.”

“They just like light.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

“What about daisies?”

Riko paused. “Daisies are dumb.”

“That’s mean.”

“They know what they did.”

We bought iced tea from a rooftop vendor and sat on a bench overlooking one of the lower avenues.

Riko kicked her boots against the bench leg.

I held my tea with both hands.

For a while, we did not talk.

That should have been awkward.

It was not.

At least, not completely.

Riko kept glancing at me like she was checking whether I had disappeared. Every time I looked back, she grinned too fast, too sharp, like being caught caring was embarrassing and she was trying to bite the evidence.

I knew that feeling.

Not the biting part.

The hiding part.

“Riko?” I asked.

“Mhm?”

“What does your name mean?”

She blinked, then looked at me like I had asked something surprisingly personal. “Depends how I write it.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean ”

She pointed her straw at me. “No.”

I closed my mouth.

“No apology.” She narrowed her eyes. “You get three apologies for the rest of the date. Use them wisely.”

“That is terrifying.”

“Good.”

I pressed my lips together so I would not accidentally spend one.

Riko seemed satisfied. Then she leaned back, looking at the sky. “I picked Riko because I liked the sound. Later someone told me it could mean child of logic if written one way. Or jasmine child another way. Or pear child. Lots of little meanings depending on the pieces.” Her smile went crooked. “Child of logic is funniest. I am not logical.”

“You can be.”

“No.”

She considered. “Maybe.”

“I like jasmine child.”

She made a face. “Too soft.”

“You can be soft.”

Her eyes flickered.

For a moment, I thought I had said the wrong thing.

Then she leaned over and pressed her shoulder against mine. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, I’ll deny it.”

“I believe you.”

“And maybe hit something.”

“I also believe that.”

Her shoulder stayed against mine.

I did not move.

The day kept unfolding after that, bigger and brighter than I had expected it to be. We watched a street performer juggle knives that turned into fish midair. Riko tried to win me a plush thunder moth from a carnival machine and got so angry at the claw mechanism that the vendor quietly handed her the prize. We ate lunch at a little noodle place that had a vegetarian broth option on the menu because Riko said watching me be careful with chopsticks was “emotionally informative,” whatever that meant. She stole mushrooms from my bowl and then looked offended when I gave her more.

“You’re supposed to fight me,” she said.

“You wanted them.”

“That is not the point.”

“What is the point?”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Scowled.

“I don’t know yet.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, it’s annoying.”

“Lots of things are both.”

Riko stabbed a mushroom with unnecessary ****. “You talk like a pillow with opinions.”

I smiled. “Thank you?”

“It was an insult.”

By midafternoon, I had forgotten to be afraid for whole stretches at a time.

That was the strangest part.

Not because the world had changed. People still looked. Some stared. One woman crossed the street when she noticed my horns, then looked embarrassed when she realized I had seen. A man muttered something about patches near a fruit stall, and Riko turned so fast I had to grab her sleeve before she could test whether a melon could fit in his mouth. The ugliness was still there.

But it did not get to be everything.

Riko kept interrupting it.

With jokes. With bad ideas. With her hand finding mine again and again like she had decided I was the correct shape for her fingers. With sudden fierce attention whenever my voice got too small. She pouted when I spent too long talking to a vendor about bread ovens. She sent me three messages while standing beside me because I had not looked at her for almost a minute.

Evening started turning the city gold by the time we wandered back toward Greenwall. I should have gone home alone. I knew that. We had already spent almost the whole day together. A normal person would say goodbye at the station. Maybe promise to message. Maybe make plans for another time after thinking carefully.

Riko did not seem interested in normal.

“This is your stop?” she asked when the train slowed.

“Yes.”

“I’m coming.”

My hand tightened around the rail. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“You probably have your own place.”

Her expression changed.

The playful light in her eyes snapped off for half a second, leaving something flat and cold beneath it. Then she smiled again, but it sat wrong on her face.

“My place won’t work.”

“Oh.” I waited. “Why?”

“Because.”

“That is not an answer.”

She looked out the window.

The train doors opened.

People moved around us.

For a second, I thought she might leave. The thought made my stomach drop in a way that was much too intense for someone I had met that morning.

Then she grabbed my hand.

“Your place,” she said. “Unless you don’t want me there.”

I swallowed.

My heart was already beating hard.

Too hard.

I had never invited a girl to my apartment.

I had never kissed a girl.

My entire romantic experience was movies, longing, one disastrous anonymous message board conversation I deleted after six minutes. There were manuals for adventuring. There were manuals for patch care. There were at least twelve bakery safety manuals.

There was no manual for beautiful emotionally unstable Døll girls inviting themselves over after licking jam off your face.

“I want you there,” I said before fear could stop me.

Riko’s grip tightened.

The wrong smile faded.

The real one came back, smaller and more dangerous because it looked relieved.

“Good,” she said.

We got off together.

The walk to my building felt completely different with Riko beside me. Every ordinary thing became something I had to see through her eyes. The cracked tile at the station exit. The leaky ceiling with its brass repair sign. The trumpet player practicing badly somewhere above. The staircase to my building that hated everyone.

“This is where I live,” I said when we reached the lobby.

Riko looked up the stairs. “Top floor?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“It’s cheaper.”

“It’s a tower.”

“It is seven floors.”

“Small tower.”

“It has plumbing issues.”

“Tragic tower.”

The stairs were less awful with someone else there, though I became intensely aware of my tail, my breathing, whether I was walking too fast or too slow, whether Riko was bored, whether inviting her up was a terrible idea, whether not inviting her up would have been worse, whether my apartment smelled like pizza, whether I had left the plate in the sink, which I absolutely had, oh crumbs.

By the time we reached my door, I was sweating.

Riko looked perfectly fine.

Dølls probably did not sweat.

Unfair.

“My apartment is small,” I said quickly as I fumbled with the key charm. “And very normal. And maybe too clean. Or not clean enough. I cleaned yesterday, but then I ate pizza in bed, which is a whole moral issue, but I put the crust in compost and the plate is in the sink because I was late, so please do not judge the sink.”

Riko stared at me.

“What?” I asked.

“You talk more when scared.”

“I am not scared.”

“You are terrified.”

“I am hosting.”

“Same thing?”

“Maybe.”

The lock clicked.

I opened the door.

My room was exactly as I had left it, which was suddenly horrifying. The bed under the slanted ceiling. The narrow desk. The kitchenette. The kettle shaped like a fat bird. The books. The jars. The rug. The laundry basket with yesterday’s clothes still silently judging me. The plate in the sink. The window with Charlie sitting proudly in his chipped blue pot, newest silver leaf half unfurled like he had dressed up for company.

I stepped inside and immediately moved toward the sink. “I need to wash that.”

Riko caught the back of my shirt.

I stopped.

“Tour,” she said.

“The sink is part of the tour.”

“No cleaning first.”

“But ”

“Tour.”

I swallowed.

Right.

Guest.

Date?

Was this still a date?

Was bringing someone to your apartment automatically something else? Did she think it was something else? Did I want it to be something else? I absolutely did not know. My heart was going so fast I worried she could hear it.

I gestured awkwardly at the room. “Um. This is the apartment.”

Riko stepped in slowly, eyes moving over everything.

“This is the kitchenette,” I said. “Two burners, tiny sink, That is the desk. Those are cookbooks. Those are adventure manuals I do not use much anymore. That is the bed. Obviously. Sorry. That was weird to point out. Beds are self explanatory.”

Riko’s eyes flicked to the bed.

Then to me.

My face heated so fast I nearly combusted.

“And this,” I said loudly, rushing toward the window, “is Charlie.”

Riko followed.

Charlie sat in his pot, leafy and dignified.

Riko leaned down until her face was level with the moonvine cutting. Her red eyes narrowed.

Charlie did not move.

“This is a plant,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You named him Charlie.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He looked like a Charlie.”

Riko studied the plant more seriously. “He does.”

My chest warmed.

“You think so?”

Riko moved through the room like she was reading it. Not snooping exactly, though probably she would have if I gave her five minutes. More like every object mattered because it was mine. She touched the spine of a cookbook, the handle of the bird kettle, the edge of the folded blanket on my bed. Each touch made me weirdly aware of the fact that I lived here. That this small room was not just a place I slept but evidence of me.

The thought was embarrassing.

Then she stopped in front of the dark window.

The evening outside had turned the glass reflective. New Avalon glowed beyond it in narrow slices blue mana lamps, vines on brick, distant tower lights, one far castle spire outlined against the sky. In the window, I saw us.

Me, small and cream white, yellow horns curving from messy white hair, cheeks pink, tail curled nervously behind me.

Riko beside me, porcelain bright and red eyed, flame hair wild, cyan seams glowing softly under synthetic skin.

She was only a little taller than me, but in the reflection she seemed to take up more space by **** of will. She leaned closer until her shoulder almost touched mine.

Riko's reflection met mine in the glass.

For a long moment neither of us moved. Just two shapes in a window, hers bright and sharp, mine soft and nervous, both of us pretending we weren't looking at each other looking at each other.

Then her hand slid into mine.

Her synthetic fingers were warmer than I expected. Smooth, but with that faint humming undercurrent of mana running through her seams. She squeezed once.

"Hey," she said quietly.

"Hey," I whispered back.

"Turn around."

I turned.

She was right there. Closer than I'd realized. Her red eyes caught the lamplight and burned like coals, and the little cyan seam at her neck pulsed in time with something I could only assume was a heartbeat, or whatever a girl like Riko had instead of one.

Her free hand came up and touched the base of one of my horns.

I made a noise.

A small, embarrassing, very involuntary noise.

Her mouth curved. "Sensitive?"

"I um yeah, they they're "

"Cute."

"That's not "

then she was walking me backward.

I didn't even register it at first. Her hands on my chest, gentle but absolutely not optional, her body crowding mine across the small room until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed and I sat down hard.

She stood over me. Flame hair tumbling around her shoulders, lamplight catching the cyan glow at her throat and collarbones, one hip cocked.

"Riko," I said. My voice cracked. "I I've never "

"I know."

"You have you ?"

She tilted her head. Smiled a small, soft smile that did not reach her eyes.

"I'm a virgin too," she said.

Some part of me, the very small adventurer trained part that paid attention to body language and tells, knew immediately that this was a lie. The rest of me did not care. The rest of me was a fire alarm.

"Okay," I breathed.

"So we'll figure it out together."

"Okay."

She knelt.

Right there, on the floor between my knees, her hands sliding up my thighs over the rough fabric of my pants. Her thumbs traced the inseam upward and I felt every inch of it like it was burning a line into me. My tail, which had been curled nervously behind me, gave one hard involuntary twitch.

"You're already hard," she said, conversationally, as her palm pressed flat against the front of my pants.

I made another noise. This one was worse.

"Sorry sorry, I "

"Don't apologize." Her fingers found the button at my waist. "I want you to be."

The button popped open. Then the next one.

She tugged the fabric down my hips and I lifted enough to let her, and then my cock was just out. In the cool air of the apartment. In front of her face.

Riko went very still.

I, somehow, went stiller.

It was a lot. I knew it was a lot. I'd known since I was about fifteen and started actually understanding the size charts in the medical books. Ten inches of thick cream pale oni cock, the foreskin still drawn most of the way over the head, veins standing out along the shaft. It twitched once under her gaze, helpless.

"Oh," Riko said softly.

"I'm sorry "

"Stop apologizing." Her voice had gone husky. "Gods. Look at you."

Her hand wrapped around the base. Her fingers were so warm. She squeezed, experimentally, and I gasped and grabbed handfuls of the blanket.

"Riko "

She leaned in.

And took the head into her mouth.

I almost came right then. I almost came from just the heat of it, the wet softness of her tongue pushing under the foreskin and rolling it back, peeling me open with her lips. She made a small pleased sound around me, a hum that vibrated all the way down the shaft, and I felt my hips jerk without permission.

She pulled off with a wet sound. A string of saliva connected her bottom lip to the tip of my cock for one obscene second before it broke.

She looked up at me, mouth shining.

"There," she said. "That's your first kiss."

My brain went white hot and empty all at once.

When she finally pulled back I was breathing like I'd run up six flights.

I couldn't even lie. I just nodded.

Riko's eyes went a shade darker.

"Good," she murmured and gave the head a small, delicate peck like she was sealing a letter.

I made a sound that was barely a word.

She laughed, low and warm, and then she was standing again, hands going to her own clothes. The leather of her jacket hit the floor first. Then the dark top underneath, pulled over her head in one smooth motion, her flame bright hair tumbling back down around her shoulders. Underneath she was all porcelain pale skin and cyan light, the seams of her construction tracing elegant lines down her sternum, around the soft swell of her breasts, along her ribs.

Her shorts came next. Then everything else.

She was beautiful in a way I didn't have the vocabulary for. Soft and sharp at the same time. Pale thighs, narrow waist, a small neat patch of red hair above her pussy that matched the flame on her head.

"Scoot back," she said.

I scooted back.

She climbed up after me. Onto the bed. Onto my lap, knees framing my hips, her weight settling over me with terrible, wonderful purpose. my cock was trapped between us, pressed up against the soft heat of her belly, and I could feel how wet she already was where her thighs brushed me.

"Riko," I said. "Are you are you sure "

"Shh." She kissed me again. Slower this time. Her tongue traced my lower lip and I opened for her without thinking. "I've got you."

She reached down between us.

Lifted up onto her knees.

I felt her line me up. Felt the head of my cock nudge against something soft and slick and impossibly hot. Her hand braced on my chest. Her red eyes locked on mine.

And then she sank down.

Slowly. Inch by inch. Her mouth fell open in a small silent O and her cyan seams flared brighter, all at once, like something inside her had spiked. I watched her face the whole way down because I couldn't look anywhere else. I watched her bite her lip. I watched her brow furrow and smooth out. I watched her take me, and take me, and take me, until her hips were flush against mine and I was somehow, impossibly, fully inside her.

I was shaking. I realized I was shaking.

"Oh gods," I whispered. "Oh oh gods, Riko "

"Mm." Her voice was rough. "You're you're big. That's a lot."

"Are you does it hurt "

"No." She rolled her hips, experimentally, and we both groaned. "No. It's good. It's so good. Just give me a second."

I gave her a second. I gave her every second she wanted. My hands had found her hips somewhere along the way and I was holding her like she was the only thing keeping me tethered to the world, which, in fairness, she was.

Then she started to move.

Up. And down. Slow at first, getting the rhythm, her palms flat on my chest for balance. Her breasts moved with her and I couldn't stop looking. Her hair fell forward over her shoulders. The cyan seams along her body all pulsed brighter every time she sank down on me, like she was lighting up from the inside, like fucking me was charging her.

"Oh oh, you feel Riko, you feel "

"I know," she breathed. "I know, baby, I know."

She picked up the pace.

She rode me with a confidence that no virgin in the world had ever had, but I was too far gone to question it. Her hips rolled in long fluid waves, working herself up and down on my cock, taking every inch of me into the slick clenching heat of her again and again. Wet sounds filled the room. Her breath came in soft urgent pants. The bed creaked under us.

I tried to stay still. I tried so hard to just let her use me, because she clearly knew what she was doing and I clearly did not, but after a while my body started moving on its own. My hips twitched up to meet her on a downstroke and she gasped, sharp and surprised, and her seams flared brilliant blue.

"Oh oh, do that again "

I did it again.

She moaned.

The sound went straight through me. I did it again, harder this time, snapping my hips up into her as she came down, and she cried out and her nails bit into my chest.

"Yes yes, like that, just like that "

I found a rhythm. Stumbling at first, then steadier. Thrusting up into her every time she dropped down, our bodies meeting in the middle with a wet smack that should have been embarrassing and was instead the hottest thing I had ever heard in my life. Riko's head fell back. Her hair spilled down her spine. The cyan light at her throat strobed with every impact.

"Oh fuck oh fuck, you're a natural look at you, look at you "

I didn't feel like a natural. I felt like I was drowning. But I kept going because she kept making those sounds and her body kept clenching around me in these tight rippling waves and something was building at the base of my spine, something huge and unfamiliar and terrifying.

I'd felt it before. In dreams. Only in dreams. I'd never let myself do this awake never let myself touch like this, never let myself come, because my pheromones were already strong enough without setting off whatever a real orgasm would do and the pressure of it now, building real and inescapable, was so much more than the dream version that I made a small frightened sound.

"Riko Riko, I think something's I "

"Mhm." She didn't slow down. If anything she rode me harder. "I know. I can feel it. Let it happen, baby. Let me have it."

"But "

"In me. Give it to me."

"I "

"Come for me."

It hit like a hammer.

My whole body locked. My back arched off the bed. My hands clamped down on her hips and I drove up into her one last time, all the way, as deep as I could possibly go, and then I just broke.

The first rope of cum punched out of me so hard I made a noise I didn't know I could make. The second was harder. By the third I was babbling, broken half words, her name, the gods' names, my hips jerking helplessly up into her with each pulse. It went on. And on. Thick and hot and endless, flooding into her in heavy shuddering pumps, and she was moaning above me with her head thrown back and her seams blazing cyan white and her body milking me through every single one.

When it finally stopped I collapsed back against the bed, panting, dizzy, my whole body buzzing.

"Oh gods," I breathed. "Oh gods. Oh gods, Riko, I "

"Shhh." She was still on top of me. Still around me. She leaned down and kissed my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. "Shhh. Good boy. Such a good boy. That was so good."

"Was it was it okay "

"It was perfect."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't I couldn't hold it "

"Don't be sorry." Her smile, this close, was wicked. "That was just the first one."

I blinked up at her.

"...The first one?"

She rolled her hips.

I was, somehow, impossibly, still hard inside her. Still hard and still sensitive enough that the motion made me gasp and twitch.

Riko's smile widened.

"Mm," she said. "Oni stamina. I was hoping."

"Riko "

"We've got all night, baby." She braced her hands on my chest again. The cyan seams along her arms pulsed brighter. "All night. And I am nowhere near done with you."

She started to move again.

And I, lying there beneath her, full of something I didn't have a name for yet, realized two things at once.

The first was that I really, really liked this.

The second was that I was absolutely not going to survive the night.

Riko leaned down, flame bright hair curtaining around my face, and kissed me deep and slow as she began to ride me all over again.