Chapter 4

A month was a very long time.

It was also no time at all.

That was one of those annoying truths that sounded like something from a romance movie where the main character stared out a rainy window and learned a life lesson. I did not stare out rainy windows dramatically. I stared out my apartment window while watering Charlie, checking my system panel too many times, and trying to decide if the tiny black panties on my desk counted as laundry, decoration, evidence, or a relationship status.

There were seven pairs now.

Seven.

Technically eight, if I counted the white pair with the little blue stitching that Riko had left under my pillow and then accused me of “finding too slowly,” as if underwear retrieval was a timed dungeon challenge. I had washed them all. Carefully. Separately. With delicate soap. Then I had folded them, unfolded them, panicked about folding them, refolded them in a much worse way, and eventually placed them in a little cloth box on my shelf because keeping a pile of a girl’s abandoned panties beside my emotional support plant felt like making Charlie complicit in something.

The worst one had been the red pair.

Not because they were red.

Because Riko had taken them off in the middle of my apartment, walked over while I was trying very hard to ask if she wanted tea like a respectable host, and placed them directly on my head.

“Riko,” I had said, because sometimes her name was the only word my brain had left.

She had stood there in my tiny room, porcelain white skin glowing faintly under the lamp, flame hair wild around her face, eyes bright red with mischief and something sharper underneath. “You looked cold.”

“My head was not cold.”

“You look warmer now.”

“I am wearing your underwear on my horns.”

“Yes.” She had tilted her head, considering me with terrible seriousness. “Fashion.”

Then she had kissed me before I could remove them, and I had forgotten all my arguments because apparently I was very easy to defeat if someone attacked with affection and no warning.

Afterward, when she left, she did not ask for them back.

She almost never did.

That became normal somehow.

That was the strange part. Things became normal very quickly when they happened enough times and no one explained that they should not. Riko messaging me before dawn became normal. Riko vanishing for hours in the middle of a conversation became normal. Riko appearing at my apartment with no warning and saying, “I was bored and you exist,” became normal. Riko leaving before morning became normal too, even though it still hurt every time.

Just a little cold patch beside me in bed.

Just a message left unread.

Just me standing in the kitchen with tea for two while the room stayed quiet.

At first, I thought maybe Dølls were like that. Their emotions moved differently. Their bodies were different. Their hearts, or heart equivalent, did things I did not understand. Riko felt everything too close to the surface and then pretended she felt nothing at all. Maybe leaving was safer for her.

Mara said some people loved like frightened cats.

I asked if frightened cats usually left underwear behind as territorial markers.

Mara had stared at me for a long time and said, “I am no longer qualified for this conversation.”

Still, the month had been wonderful.

That was true too.

Riko made everything brighter and worse and more alive. She messaged during work until I learned to place my system panel at the very edge of my vision so I did not drop trays every time her name appeared. She came by Hearthbell twice and bought nothing but stared at customers who looked at me too long until they remembered urgent errands elsewhere. She stole one of my saved cinnamon rolls. She watched me pipe lemon cream into pastries and said it was “Just like us,” which made me nearly pipe cream onto the table instead.

She liked my good things list.

Or she said she hated it.

It was hard to tell, because the first time she found it, she read it silently, then looked at me like I had stabbed her in a place she did not know she had, then called it “stupidly cute” and refused to give it back until I promised to add one more thing.

Riko smiled at me today.

I wrote it down while she watched.

Her eyes went gold for half a second.

Then she said, “Again.”

So I wrote it again.

Riko smiled at me today, twice.

That made her laugh, sharp and delighted and almost mean, but she tucked the notebook back onto my desk very carefully afterward, like it was something fragile.

The hard parts were harder because the wonderful parts were so wonderful.

That was what confused me most.

One evening, she messaged me constantly for three hours while I was making soup.

Riko: What are you doing?

Yuzu: Chopping carrots.

Riko: Gross.

Yuzu: Carrots are nice.

Riko: They taste like orange dirt.

Yuzu: That is not untrue, but it is rude.

Riko: Send picture.

So I sent her a picture of carrots.

Riko: Not them. You.

I sent one of myself holding the knife safely pointed down because responsible knife handling mattered even during flirting.

Riko: Cute.

Riko: Come here.

Yuzu: You mean to your place?

The reply did not come.

Three dots appeared.

Vanished.

Appeared again.

Vanished.

Then nothing.

I waited while the soup simmered.

I stirred it.

I added salt.

I told Charlie that maybe her signal cut out. Or maybe she was busy. Or maybe I had said something wrong by asking about her place again, which I already knew was not a good topic, because every time I asked, her face changed.

An hour passed.

The soup got too thick.

I messaged once.

Yuzu: Are you okay?

No answer.

Another hour.

Yuzu: Sorry if I asked something bad.

No answer.

I put the soup away because I was not hungry anymore.

Near midnight, she answered.

Riko: Wow.

Riko: So now I’m bad because I didn’t answer fast enough?

I sat up so quickly my tail knocked my empty cup off the desk.

Yuzu: No! No, that’s not what I meant.

Riko: You asked if I was okay like I’m broken.

Yuzu: I was worried.

Riko: Because you think I can’t take care of myself?

Yuzu: No, Riko, I promise. I just missed you.

There was a pause.

Then:

Riko: Say that first next time.

I stared at the message.

My chest hurt.

Yuzu: I missed you.

Riko: Better.

Riko: Again.

Yuzu: I missed you, Riko.

Riko: Good peach boy.

After that, she sent a picture of one red eye, half her face hidden behind flame hair, tongue poking out between little fangs.

Riko: Don’t make sad soup.

I laughed even though I was still upset.

That was the dangerous thing.

She could make the hurt feel like part of the joke.

And if it was a joke, then maybe it was fine.

Another time, I asked where she had gone after leaving my apartment before dawn.

We had been sitting on my bed, fully dressed for once, because I had to work early and she had said she only wanted to “look at me for a while,” which sounded creepy until she said it, and then it became the kind of sentence that made my whole body forget common sense. Her head was in my lap. My fingers were in her hair. Charlie was politely pretending not to supervise.

“Where do you go?” I asked softly.

Riko’s eyes opened.

The red glow dimmed.

“What?”

“When you leave,” I said. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me. I just wondered. You always leave at strange times.”

She sat up.

Immediately.

Too fast.

The warmth left with her.

“Strange times?” she repeated.

I swallowed. “I didn’t mean strange bad. Just… unexpected.”

“So I’m not allowed to leave?”

“No. That is not what I said.”

“But you thought it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You looked sad when I left last time.”

“I was sad,” I admitted, because Mara had told me honesty was important. “But that doesn’t mean you did something wrong. I just like when you stay.”

Riko stared at me.

For a second, she looked almost scared.

Then her mouth curved.

Wrong smile.

“Well, maybe don’t look so abandoned, then.”

The word hit too close.

Abandoned.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

Her expression changed again, sharper. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like I kicked a puppy.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“You are.” Her eyes burned redder. “You do that thing where you look all soft and hurt, and then I’m the monster.”

My hands curled in the blanket. “I don’t think you’re a monster.”

“Sure.”

“Riko.”

“No, it’s fine. I get it.” She grabbed her jacket from the chair. “Sweet little Yuzu, scary unstable Riko, everyone clap because the bakery boy survived another mean girl.”

I stood too quickly. “That is not fair.”

She froze.

I froze harder because I had raised my voice a tiny bit, and that was not something I usually did.

Riko looked at me like she could not decide whether to run, bite, or cry.

My anger immediately panicked and tried to become apology.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“For…” I did not know. “For making it bad.”

She watched me.

Then, suddenly, she crossed the room and kissed me so hard my back hit the wall.

The argument vanished under heat and relief and her hands at my face.

Afterward, she stayed an extra hour.

I counted that as progress.

Maybe it was.

Maybe it was not.

I did not know.

I only knew that I loved her.

One day, I was trying to decide whether Riko counted as my girlfriend. The next, I was watching her sleep with her face half buried in my pillow, and the word love settled into me like it had always been waiting there.

I did not say it.

Not yet.

Every time I almost did, something stopped me.

Not fear exactly.

Well.

Yes, fear.

But also the sense that love was a very large basket and Riko might panic if I handed it to her too quickly. Or she might grab it, climb inside, demand I carry her forever, then accuse me of setting it down wrong.

I smiled when I thought that.

Then felt mean.

Then added Riko slept over almost until morning to the good things list.

Almost counted.

It had to.

Work became stranger because of her.

Not bad.

Just strange.

I had always liked Hearthbell. The warmth, the rhythm, the dough, the customers who were kind enough to outweigh the ones who were not. But now the day was divided into messages. Before Riko answered. After Riko answered. Waiting for Riko. Trying not to wait for Riko. Failing.

Mara noticed, of course.

Mara noticed everything.

“You’re checking again,” she said one afternoon.

I was dusting sugar over lemon buns.

I definitely was not checking.

Mostly.

“I am looking at the time.”

“The time is not in the same corner as your girlfriend.”

“She is not ” I stopped.

Mara’s eyebrows rose.

My face heated.

“I don’t know if she is my girlfriend.”

“Have you asked?”

“No.”

“Has she?”

“No.”

“Has she left enough underwear at your apartment to open a very confusing boutique?”

I nearly inhaled powdered sugar. “Mara.”

“I’m just saying.”

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Then her expression softened. “Are you happy?”

The question should have been easy.

I looked down at the lemon buns. They were very pretty. Pale yellow glaze, little curls of candied peel, sugar catching the light.

“Yes,” I said.

Mara waited.

“And scared.”

“That can happen.”

“And confused.”

“That can also happen.”

“And sometimes I feel like if I say the wrong thing she disappears, and if I say the right thing she comes back, but I don’t always know which is which.”

Mara’s face changed.

Only slightly.

Enough to make my stomach tighten.

“That sounds exhausting,” she said.

I smiled automatically. “Relationships are probably supposed to be a little exhausting.”

“Not all the time.”

“It isn’t all the time.”

“Yuzu.”

“It’s not,” I insisted, too quickly. “She’s sweet too. Not sweet like… normal sweet. Riko sweet. Sharp sweet. Like candied ginger. Or lemon peel. Or those little spicy sugar drops old people buy and then say are too spicy but keep buying.”

Mara stared at me for a second.

Then sighed. “Only you would describe a possibly toxic relationship as artisanal candy.”

“Toxic is a strong word.”

“I said possibly.”

I picked up another bun and placed it in the display case with **** care. “She just feels things very strongly.”

“So do you.”

“Yes, but I’m less pointy.”

Mara’s mouth twitched despite herself.

That helped.

A system ping appeared.

Riko: Are you ignoring me?

My heart jumped.

I answered instantly.

Yuzu: No! Working. Sorry. Mara was talking to me.

Riko: Mara again.

Riko: She talks to you a lot.

I hesitated.

Yuzu: She is my friend.

Riko: I know.

Riko: I’m not stupid.

Yuzu: I didn’t mean

Riko: Don’t apologize.

Riko: It’s annoying when you apologize before I decide if I’m mad.

I stared at the message.

Mara leaned closer. “What did she say?”

I closed the panel. “Nothing.”

Mara’s expression tightened.

I smiled.

Bright.

Too bright.

“Lemon buns are done,” I said.

Mara did not argue.

That made me feel worse.

That evening, Riko came over without warning.

I had just finished watering Charlie and was trying to make dinner out of noodles, mushrooms, and the last of the soft cheese, which sounded either inspired or ****. The knock came in three sharp taps followed immediately by my system pinging.

Riko: Open.

I opened.

She stood in the hallway with jacket slipping off one side, red orange hair a mess, eyes bright and feverish.

“You took too long,” she said.

“I was six feet away.”

“Too long.”

“Do you want noodles?”

She stared at me.

Then laughed, sudden and real.

The sound made all the worry in my chest loosen at once.

“Yes,” she said. “I want noodles.”

She came in, kicked off her boots, and immediately flopped onto my bed like she owned it. Maybe she did, a little. Charlie’s leaf trembled in the window draft. Riko pointed two fingers at him.

“Don’t look at me.”

“He cannot look.”

“He knows what he’s doing.”

“He is innocent.”

“He is competition.”

“For what?”

She turned her head toward me, eyes glowing. “You.”

My hands forgot what noodles were.

The rest of the night was good.

Mostly.

We ate noodles from the same bowl because there was only one bowl. We watched half a movie and talked over all of it. She asked about the bakery and pretended not to care about every answer. I told her about a child who called lemon tarts “sun pies,” and she rolled her eyes but smiled when she thought I was not looking.

Then she went quiet.

Too quiet.

I paused the movie.

“Riko?”

She was sitting on the floor beside my bed, knees drawn up, chin resting on them. The cyan seams along her arms pulsed slowly under her skin. Her eyes were not red now. They had shifted toward a low amber that made her look younger somehow.

“If I was bad,” she said, “would you know?”

My chest tightened.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “If I was doing something bad. If I was bad for you.”

I moved carefully, slowly, like she was a skittish animal. “I don’t think you are bad.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“I know.”

She looked at me.

I wanted to say something wise.

Something grown up.

Something that would make all the strange parts of us line up neatly and stop hurting.

Instead, I said, “I think you’re Riko.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is stupid.”

“Maybe.”

“That does not answer anything.”

“No.”

“You are bad at this.”

“I know.”

She stared at me for another long second.

Then she crawled onto the bed, pushed me backward, and curled against my chest with her face hidden under my chin.

“Don’t ask where I go,” she whispered.

My arms hesitated.

Then settled around her.

“Okay.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t let Mara tell you I’m bad.”

“She doesn’t ”

Riko’s fingers dug into my shirt. “Promise.”

I swallowed.

“I won’t let anyone decide how I feel for me,” I said carefully.

She went still.

“That was not what I said.”

“I know. But it’s true.”

For one second, I thought she would get angry.

Then she laughed softly into my shirt.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “Getting brave.”

My face warmed.

“Tiny brave,” I said.

“Mine.”

The word came again.

This time I did not answer.

I only held her tighter.

In the morning, she was gone before I woke.

Of course she was.

But this time, there was a pair of panties folded on my pillow.

Pink.

With a little embroidered peach on the front.

I stared at them for a very long time.

Then I picked them up, walked to the shelf, and placed them in the cloth box with the others.

Charlie watched in plant silence.

“She is very thoughtful,” I told him.

Charlie’s new leaf had finally opened all the way.

It was silver and delicate and ridiculous.

I touched it gently.

“She is also very confusing.”

No answer.

“I know. Both things can be true.”

My system pinged.

Riko: Awake?

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Yuzu: Yes.

Riko: Miss me?

My fingers hovered.

Then I answered honestly.

Yuzu: Yes.

Riko: Good.

Riko: Say it better.

I sat on the edge of my bed, apartment quiet around me, shelf full of secrets, heart full of feelings I did not have the experience to sort.

Yuzu: I missed you, Riko.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Riko: Good boy.

And because I loved her, because I was new to this, because nobody had taught me the difference between being wanted and being handled carefully, because Riko made loneliness feel like a locked door she had kicked open with both boots, I held that message close and let it warm me.

Even when part of me wondered why warmth always seemed to arrive after cold.

Riko: Send me a picture.

I blinked.

Yuzu: A picture of what?

Riko: Don't play dumb.

Riko: You know what.

My face went hot so fast I felt dizzy with it. I sat very still on the edge of the bed, ears burning under my hair. My horns suddenly felt enormous and conspicuous, as if anyone in the building could look at me and know what she'd just asked for.

Yuzu: Riko I

Yuzu: I've never

Yuzu: I don't know how to

Riko: It's easy.

Riko: Pants off. Hand on it. Open Panel. Click.

Riko: I want to see what's mine.

What's mine.

My cock, which had been minding its own business, made a very enthusiastic argument for cooperation. I felt it twitch in my pants, already half hard just from her words on a screen, and the heat in my face spread down my neck and chest.

Yuzu: Okay

Yuzu: Give me a second

Riko: Good boy.

My hands were shaking, which was stupid. It was a picture. She'd seen the actual thing. She'd had the actual thing inside her. She'd ridden me until I forgot my own name and then ridden me some more. A picture was nothing.

A picture was everything.

I stood up and tugged my pants down to my thighs. My cock sprang free, already most of the way hard, the foreskin half drawn back over the flushed pink head. I wrapped a hand around the base because that seemed like the thing to do, and I opened a panel with the other, and I tried to figure out the angle.

The first picture was terrible. Too dark. The second was somehow worse, with my own thigh blocking most of the shot. The third was…

The third was actually pretty good.

I stared at it for a long mortified moment. My cock, thick and pale and obvious, my hand wrapped around the base, a sliver of my belly visible at the top of the frame. It looked obscene. It looked like the kind of picture you weren't supposed to take.

Riko had asked for it.

I hit send before I could think about it for another second.

The reply came in under ten seconds.

Riko: Gods look at you.

Riko: Baby.

Riko: That's a beautiful cock.

I made a small noise into my own room.

Riko: Okay. New game.

Riko: The thing I left.

Yuzu: Riko

Riko: Get them.

Yuzu: I can't

Riko: You can.

Riko: Put them on.

Riko: I'll do something special for you if you do.

Yuzu: Special like what

Riko: Get them on and find out.

I got off the bed with my pants still around my thighs, waddled three steps to the shelf, and pulled the little pink folded thing out from behind the towels.

It was even smaller than I remembered. Soft pink cotton, a tiny white bow at the front, lace trim along the legs.

There was absolutely no way these were going to fit me.

Yuzu: They won't fit

Riko: They'll fit.

Riko: They'll be tight.

Riko: That's the point.

I kicked my pants the rest of the way off. Stood there in just my shirt, cock half hard and bobbing, and stepped one foot, then the other, into the panties.

I pulled them up.

She was right. They were tight. They were criminally tight. The fabric strained over my hips and the front pouch was utterly defeated by what it was being asked to contain. The head of my cock pushed up above the waistband, foreskin half rolled, pink against pink. The lace bit into my thighs. My tail had to curl up and out the leg hole because there was nowhere else for it to go.

I caught sight of myself in the dark window.

Small. Cream white. Yellow horns. Messy white hair. A too big pink shirt. And ridiculous, obscene, straining pink panties that were not even close to containing me.

I looked

I did not have a word for what I looked like.

I took the picture before I could overthink it. I sent it.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then my system started ringing. Video call.

I almost dropped it. I hit accept on reflex and Riko's face filled the screen, flame bright hair tumbling around her shoulders, red eyes blown wide, mouth open in a small dazed smile.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, baby. Look at you."

"Riko "

"Show me. Hold it up. Let me see."

I held the panel out at arm's length, tilted it down. I watched her watch me on the little inset window. Watched her lick her lower lip.

"Gods," she said. "Gods, you're cute. You're so cute. Are they tight? They look tight."

"They're really tight," I whispered.

"Good." She shifted on her screen. I could see now that she was on her bed too, propped up against pillows, her own shirt pulled up over her breasts, the cyan seam at her sternum pulsing softly. "Now sit down. On your bed. Camera on you."

I sat down.

I propped the panel against the pillow next to me so she could see me from the chest down, the way she'd angled hers. My cock was straining so hard against the front of the panties that the head was fully out now, flushed dark pink, a bead of precum already gathering at the tip.

On screen, Riko's hand had slid down between her own thighs.

"Riko "

"Shh." Her voice had gone husky. Her fingers parted the soft red curls between her legs and I watched, transfixed, as she circled her clit with two fingertips. "I want you to do something for me."

"Okay."

"Touch yourself."

"I I've never "

"I know you haven't." Her smile curled at the edges. "That's part of why this is fun."

"What if what if the pheromones "

"You're alone in your apartment with the windows closed. You'll be fine. Touch yourself."

I reached down with one shaking hand and pulled the waistband of the panties down just enough to let my cock spring free, and I wrapped my fingers around the shaft, and the sensation was so much sharper than anything I had let myself feel before that I gasped out loud.

On the screen, Riko's seams flared.

"There you go," she murmured. "There you go, baby. Stroke it. Slow. Up to the tip and back down. Use that precum."

I did what she said. I slid my hand up to the head and dragged my thumb through the slick gathering there and used it to ease the slide back down. My foreskin moved with my hand, rolling up over the head and back, and I made a small embarrassed sound at how good it felt.

"That's it. That's it, good boy."

"Riko "

"You know what I want you to think about?"

"What "

"My pussy."

I groaned.

"My pussy was in those panties earlier today." Her fingers were moving in slow circles on her own clit now, and her hips had started to rock against her own hand. "All afternoon. I wore them all afternoon, and then I took them off and folded them up and put them in your hand. You're wearing my panties, baby. The fabric on your cock is the fabric that was on my cunt."

"Oh gods "

"You can probably still smell me on them if you try."

I couldn't. I was too much pheromone confused oni to smell anything but myself. But the idea of it, the thought of it, the picture in my head of her stepping out of these same panties hours ago and the same cotton pressed against the same wet pink heat I'd been buried in.

My hand sped up without permission.

"That's it. That's it, baby, stroke that cock for me. Stroke it thinking about being inside me. Stroke it thinking about how tight I was. Remember how I sank down on you?"

"Yes "

"Remember how you couldn't even fit at first?"

"Yes, yes, Riko "

"Stroke it like you're fucking me, baby."

I did. Gods help me, I did. My hand pumped up and down my shaft in long fast strokes, my hips twitching up to meet my own fist, and on the screen Riko had spread her thighs wider and was working two fingers in and out of herself in time with me, her thumb circling her clit, her flame bright hair falling in her face. Her breath had gone ragged. The cyan seams along her sternum and throat were strobing.

"Look at you," she panted. "Look at you in my panties. Stroking that big oni cock for me. Such a good boy. Such a sweet little good boy."

"Riko I'm I'm gonna "

"Not yet."

"I can't "

"Hold it. Hold it, baby. I want us to do it together."

I bit down on my own lip so hard I tasted iron. I slowed my hand, barely, my whole body shaking with the effort of it. On screen Riko had thrown her head back, her throat a long pale arch, her fingers a blur between her legs.

"Oh oh fuck oh baby, I'm close, I'm so close "

"Riko "

"Tell me. Tell me what you want."

"I want I want you "

"Say it. Say it dirty for me."

"I want to be inside you "

"Yes "

"I want to come in you again "

"Yes, baby, yes "

"I want "

A door opened.

I heard it through the panel. The unmistakable sound of a door swinging open somewhere behind her, and then a voice. Male. Casual. Mid sentence.

" told you I was gonna be back early, did you even "

Riko's eyes snapped wide.

For one frozen half second I saw everything change in her face. The flush, the hunger, the unraveling all of it locked down behind a wall so fast it was like watching a portcullis drop.

The call ended.

My panel went black.

I sat there in the pink panties, on the edge of my bed, hand still wrapped around my own cock, breathing hard into the suddenly enormous silence of my apartment.

My panel buzzed.

Riko: Roommate walked in. Sorry baby.

I stared at the message.

My hand was still moving, slowly, almost without my permission. My cock was still straining and slick and aching. The image of her face in that half second before the call cut, the way her expression had snapped shut like a door, sat in my chest next to the warm coal of good boy and didn't quite fit with it.

Roommate.

The voice had said I told you I was gonna be back early.

That was not how you talked to a roommate.

Some quiet careful part of me, the part that had been an adventurer long enough to notice tells, filed that away in the same shelf as her smile that didn't reach her eyes, and the virgin lie, and the way warmth always seemed to arrive after cold.

The louder part of me, the part wearing her panties with my cock out and her taste still imagined on the fabric, did not want to think about any of that.

My panel buzzed again.

Riko: Don't finish without me.

Riko: I'll make it up to you. Promise.

Riko: be a good boy.

I let out a slow breath. I took my hand off my cock. I sat there in the dim lamp glow of my apartment, in the soft pink panties she'd left for me, half hard and aching and obedient.

Yuzu: Okay

Yuzu: I'll wait

Riko: That's my boy.

Charlie, in his pot on the windowsill, did not move. The window beyond him reflected a small horned figure in pink, alone on the edge of a bed, holding a panel that had gone quiet.

I pulled the blanket over my lap.

I did not take the panties off.

I sat there for one more second.

Then another.

Then my system clock blinked in the corner of my vision.

Work starts in nineteen minutes.

I stared at it.

Nineteen.

That was not late yet.

That was almost late.

Almost late was worse than late because almost late still had hope in it, and hope made people do stupid things like sprint down six flights of stairs with wet hair and no breakfast.

“Oh crumbs.”

I launched myself off the bed so fast the blanket tangled around my ankles and nearly killed me.

My tail whipped out for balance, hit the side of the desk, knocked over a pencil cup, and sent three pens rolling dramatically across the floor like they had been waiting their whole lives for this escape attempt.

“No no no, traitors later!”

I grabbed my work trousers from the chair and shoved one leg in.

Wrong leg.

My shirt came next. Then my tie. The tie went crooked immediately, so I fixed it once, then twice, then gave up and decided slightly crooked was charming. My horns still had sleep fluff around the bases, and my hair looked like I had lost a fight with a pillow and then tried to negotiate with the survivors.

I grabbed my coat.

Grabbed my work bag.

Grabbed half a sweet roll from yesterday because breakfast was still important even during emergencies.

Then I froze at the door.

Something felt wrong.

Not bad wrong.

Just… weird.

I looked down.

The pink panties were still on.

Under my trousers.

I had completely forgotten to take them off.

For a long moment, I stood there with my hand on the doorknob, my entire soul trying to quietly exit through the nearest window.

“Oh,” I whispered.

Charlie sat on the windowsill, noble and leafy.

I looked at him.

Charlie looked back with the calm judgment of a plant who had never once forgotten he was wearing someone else’s underwear.

“I do not have time,” I told him.

Charlie remained silent.

“This is practical. I am late. This is not a choice. This is logistics.”

The underwear existed under my work pants with terrible awareness.

“Do not tell anyone.”

Charlie’s new leaf trembled in the draft.

I decided that was agreement and fled.

The stairs were a blur.

The lobby was a blur.

The street was a blur full of tram sparks, wet stone, breakfast carts, and one man walking three tiny lizards on golden leashes who absolutely did not deserve to be part of my crisis but became part of it anyway because I nearly ran into him and squeaked, “Sorry, lizard family!”

He shouted something after me.

I did not hear it.

The train ride was mercifully uneventful, which meant no one threw me, licked me, flirted with me, threatened me. That was good. That was very good. I stood near the doors, one hand on the rail, knees pressed together more than usual because every little shift reminded me of the thing I was wearing and why I was wearing it.

I checked my time. Checked the station map. Checked Riko’s contact twice even though she had not messaged again. Checked whether anyone was looking at me strangely, which was silly because people looked at me strangely all the time and it did not necessarily mean they knew about the underwear.

It could have meant horns.

Or tail.

Or oni.

Or the fact that I looked like someone who had slept three hours and made poor decisions with excellent posture.

So I missed the important thing.

I reached Hearthbell with two minutes to spare, which would have been a victory if the door had not stuck.

The bakery door chose today to become my enemy.

I pulled.

It did not open.

I pulled again.

Still nothing.

I looked through the glass at Mara, who was arranging apple tarts in the display case.

She looked back at me.

I pointed at the door.

She mouthed, Push.

I pushed.

The door opened.

I stepped inside with all the dignity of someone who had lost a fight against basic architecture.

The bell chimed cheerfully above me, traitor.

Mara crossed her arms.

I smiled.

“Good morning.”

“You’re late,” she said.

I looked at the clock.

“I am thirty seconds late.”

“You are late.”

“Thirty seconds is not really a time. It’s more like time garnish.”

“Yuzu.”

I straightened immediately.

Mara’s face was not cruel. It was not even really angry. It was tired in the careful way adults got when they were trying to be fair and worried at the same time.

“You’ve been late a lot lately,” she said.

My stomach folded.

“I know.”

“Not hours late. Not disaster late. But late enough that people notice.”

“I know.”

“And when you are here, you’re distracted.”

The word landed harder than I wanted.

Distracted.

Like flour dust on black cloth. Impossible to pretend it was not there.

“I’m sorry.”

Mara’s mouth tightened. “That is not what I want first.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I don’t want the apology first. I want you to hear me first.” She glanced toward the kitchen, then lowered her voice. “You are good at this job. You are good with customers. You make the prettiest honey twists in the district, and the head baker pretends not to care but that old elf absolutely does. But you need to shape up, okay?”

I nodded too quickly. “Okay.”

“Not because I want to scold you.”

“I know.”

“Because I don’t want you to lose something you love because a girl with a bat is turning your brain into jam.”

My face burned.

“She is not ”

Mara lifted an eyebrow.

“She is maybe lightly preserving my brain in fruit syrup,” I admitted.

“That sounds sticky.”

“It is very emotionally sticky.”

“Shape up.”

“I will.”

She studied me for another moment.

Then her expression softened just a little. “Good. Apron on. Wash hands. We’re behind on morning buns.”

“Yes. Morning buns. Very important. Bun discipline.”

“Yuzu.”

“Shaping up now.”

I hurried into the back before I could make it worse.

The kitchen heat wrapped around me at once. Butter. Sugar. Yeast. Oven stone. Hearthbell’s safe smells. I hung my coat, tied my apron properly this time, tucked my tail behind me, and went to the sink.

Hands.

Wash hands.

Work.

Normal.

I rolled up my sleeves.

And saw bare skin.

For a second, my brain refused to understand it.

My forearm looked wrong.

No amber blink. No rune lit square. No adhesive edge. No little medical device pulsing against my skin like a tiny judgmental heartbeat.

Nothing.

Just the faint red mark from yesterday’s patch.

I had forgotten the suppressant patch.

The room tilted.

My hands gripped the edge of the sink.

No.

No no no no no.

I looked at my bag.

Maybe I had a spare.

I always meant to carry a spare.

Responsible people carried spares. People with medical requirements carried spares.

I opened my bag with shaking fingers.

Notebook.

Lunch cloth.

Wallet.

Comb.

Emergency lemon candy.

No patch.

Of course no patch.

Because yesterday I had used the last fresh one from the drawer and had not restocked my bag because Riko had messaged and then everything had become pink underwear and waiting and not thinking too hard about a male voice through a video call.

The sink kept running.

I shut it off too hard.

For a moment, I just stared at my bare arm.

Then I yanked my sleeve back down.

Hide it.

That was the first thought.

Not tell Mara. Not tell the head baker. Not go home. Not do the smart, safe, responsible thing.

Hide it.

My stomach twisted with shame even as I did it.

The bakery had rules. Not mean rules. Not all of them. Some were cruel in the way public fear became, yes, but some existed because hormones were real and biology was real and people were afraid for reasons that had history behind them. Hearthbell had hired me because I proved I was compliant. Six months. Testing. Certificates. Amber blink visible on request.

If an inspector came in today…

If a customer complained…

If anyone asked…

My mouth went dry.

I could lose the job.

Worse, I could prove every bad thought right.

I pulled my sleeve lower until it almost covered my wrist. Then I washed my hands carefully, keeping the fabric dry, which made the whole process awkward and suspicious and terrible.

Mara passed behind me carrying a tray of proofing dough.

“You okay?”

I smiled over my shoulder.

Bright.

Too bright.

“Mm hm!”

Her eyes narrowed.

I turned back to the sink very quickly.

For the first hour, nothing happened.

That was almost worse.

I kept expecting alarms. A Pendragon inspector kicking in the door. A customer sniffing the air and pointing at me. The head baker looking at my sleeve and saying, Yuzu, where is your patch?.

No one did.

The bakery worked.

Dough rose. Ovens opened. Trays moved. Customers came and went. I smiled, wrapped bread, counted crowns, placed change on the tray, and kept my left arm angled behind the counter whenever possible. If anyone noticed my sleeve was down while my other one was rolled, they did not say.

But my body noticed.

Not all at once.

That was the strange part.

The suppressants did not vanish from my blood instantly. It was not like taking off the patch turned me into some horror story version of myself. I was still me. Small, cream white, tired, polite, good at folding pastry boxes. But hour by hour, something under my skin seemed to wake up and stretch.

The kitchen smelled sharper.

Butter became layers. Sweet cream, salt, browned milk solids, the faint metal of the pan. Cinnamon became heat and bark and sugar dust. Customers had smells too, not in a bad way, just more than usual. Rain on coats. Ink. leather. perfume. nervous sweat. That made me pull inward, tail tucked close, because noticing felt rude.

My skin felt too warm under my shirt.

The pink panties felt tighter every time I remembered them.

Which was often.

I tried very hard not to remember them.

That did not work.

Then a man at the counter snapped his fingers at me.

Normally, I hated finger snapping customers in a quiet, sad way.

Today something in my chest snapped back.

Enough that my hand tightened around the paper bag until it crinkled.

“Hey,” he said, impatient. “Little horns. You listening?”

The words hit my ears.

Little horns.

Usually I swallowed that.

Usually I smiled and decided maybe he did not mean it cruelly, maybe he just did not know, maybe correcting him would make the room uncomfortable and then everyone would look at me. Usually I made myself smaller around the insult until it passed.

Today my mouth opened before the smaller making part could catch up.

“My name is Yuzu.”

The man blinked.

I blinked too.

Mara, behind me, went very still.

The customer frowned. “What?”

“My name is Yuzu,” I repeated, quieter now, but still somehow saying it. “It is on the tag. I can get your order sir.”

For one terrible second, I thought he would explode.

He did not.

He looked at my nametag. Then at my face. Then away, annoyed but not brave enough to make a scene over being asked to read.

“Fine. Yuzu. Two rye.”

My heart hammered.

I turned, selected the loaves with tongs, wrapped them, placed them on the counter, and rang him up with hands that were only shaking a little.

When he left, Mara came up beside me.

“That was good,” she said softly.

It should have felt good.

It did not.

I felt hot. Awful. Mean. Like I had bitten someone.

“I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“You didn’t snap.”

“I corrected a customer.”

“He was rude.”

“I know, but…”

But what?

But I was supposed to be nice enough that people forgot to be afraid.

But anger on an oni looked different than anger on other people.

But if I had been wearing the patch properly, maybe I would have swallowed it like usual.

Mara studied me. “Yuzu?”

“I’m okay,” I said quickly. “Just startled myself.”

She did not look convinced.

I escaped to the back under the excuse of checking the next tray.

In the kitchen, I stood beside the proofing rack and pressed both hands against my face.

I had been angry.

Not sad angry.

Not hurt angry.

Real anger.

Small, yes. Tiny. A match flame, not a fire. But it had been there. Hot and immediate and almost satisfying.

That was the worst part.

Part of me had liked saying it.

My name is Yuzu.

The shame came right after.

Heavy and cold.

(I am not dangerous because I got angry.)

That sounded like something a counselor would say.

(I am not bad because I wanted someone to say my name.)

That sounded truer.

My sleeve slipped up as I lowered my hands.

Bare forearm.

No patch.

The shame sharpened.

(I am bad for hiding this.)

I pulled the sleeve down again.

The rest of the day became a long careful performance.

I kept my distance from customers. Not obvious distance. Just a little more counter between us. A little less leaning forward. I used tongs for everything, even items customers normally expected me to grab with gloved hands. I washed my hands so often the skin around my knuckles dried out. I checked the front window twice for inspectors. I avoided Mara’s eyes whenever she seemed like she might ask questions.

Riko messaged around noon.

Riko: Bored.

My heart jumped.

Then guilt hit because my heart had jumped.

Yuzu: At work.

Riko: I know.

Riko: Entertain me.

I stared at the message.

Normally, I would have sent a joke. A picture of a bun. A little story about a customer asking if sourdough was cursed because it “looked too confident.”

Today something in me tightened.

Yuzu: I can’t right now. I’m behind.

Three dots.

Stopped.

Three dots again.

Riko: Wow.

My stomach dropped.

Riko: Okay.

Riko: Sorry for bothering you.

There it was.

The little hook.

The cold after warmth.

Usually I would panic. Usually I would send three messages explaining that she was not bothering me, that I missed her, that I wanted to talk, that work was just busy and please do not be upset.

My fingers hovered.

The heat in my chest sparked.

Not at her.

At the pattern.

At myself for knowing the pattern and still wanting to step into it because at least stepping into it meant she kept talking.

Yuzu: You are not bothering me.

I stopped.

Breathed.

Then added:

Yuzu: I really do have to work. I’ll message on break.

I stared at it, horrified by my own bravery.

Sent.

No reply.

For twenty minutes, no reply.

Every minute felt like stepping on a stair that might not be there.

Then:

Riko: Fine.

Another pause.

Riko: Break better be soon.

I smiled.

Then immediately felt ashamed because I had been rewarded for holding a boundary like a dog getting a treat.

Then felt ashamed for comparing myself to a dog.

Then thought of the pink panties under my work clothes and nearly dropped a bowl of glaze.

By late afternoon, the hormones had returned enough that my skin felt too aware of everything. The brush of my shirt. The press of the underwear. The warmth of the ovens. The scent of my own body, faint and unfamiliar without the patch flattening it down. Not overwhelming. Not like the horror stories. But there.

Mine.

I hated that word in that context.

I loved that word in Riko’s messages.

That made me feel worse.

The head baker called my name near closing.

I almost jumped out of my skin.

“Yuzu.”

“Yes?”

He stood by the schedule board, broad arms folded. Not angry. Serious.

“You need tomorrow morning off?”

My blood froze.

“What? No. No, I’m fine.”

“You’ve been off today.”

Mara, wiping the counter nearby, did not look up.

I **** a laugh. “I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been tired a lot.”

“I know. I’ll fix it.”

His eyes moved over me. For one awful second, I thought they stopped on my sleeve.

But he only sighed.

“Fix it before someone else notices.”

My throat tightened.

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded once and went back to the ovens.

Someone else.

Not him.

Not Mara.

Someone with less patience. Someone with authority. Someone who saw a late, distracted oni with hidden wrists and decided the bakery had made a mistake by trusting me.

I finished closing with my heart pounding.

Sweep. Wipe. Count. Store. Label donations.

Mara cornered me near the coat hooks.

“Yuzu.”

I clutched my bag. “I need to go.”

“I know. I’m not stopping you.”

Her voice was gentle.

That was dangerous.

I could not handle gentle right now. Gentle would make me confess. Confessing would make it real. Real would make me lose the job, or at least get sent home, or make Mara look at me like I had betrayed her trust.

“I really need to go,” I said again.

Mara’s eyes softened. “Okay. Go home. Sleep. Put your head back on straight.”

My sleeve felt like it was burning.

I nodded.

Then left before she could say anything else.

The walk home was too loud.

Every person too close. Every smell too sharp. Every little irritation had teeth. A man stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and blocked the flow of people while arguing with his panel, and I had the sudden wild urge to say, Move. Not politely. Not sweetly. Just say it hard enough that he did.

I did not.

I stepped around him.

Then hated myself for wanting to be rude.

Then hated myself for hating myself.

Then almost cried because that was a very stupid emotional sandwich and I did not have the energy to eat it.

The train was crowded. I kept my arms folded tight so no one saw my bare forearm. A child stared at my horns. Normally, I would smile. Maybe wiggle my fingers. Maybe make a tiny spark if their parent looked friendly.

Today I looked away because I was afraid my smile would come out wrong.

When I finally reached my building, I took the stairs two at a time, unlocked my door, stepped inside, and shut it behind me.

Quiet.

Charlie waited by the window.

The cloth box sat on the shelf.

My room smelled like home.

I dropped my bag.

Then I tore open the desk drawer so fast the handle cracked against the wall.

Patches.

There.

A fresh strip pack, still sealed.

I fumbled one out with shaking fingers, peeled the backing, and slapped it onto my forearm.

Crooked.

I did not care.

The runes blinked red.

Once.

Twice.

For one horrible second, I thought it would not activate because my skin was sweaty or because I had applied it wrong or because I had ruined everything.

Then amber light pulsed under the surface.

Working.

The relief hit so hard my knees gave out.

I sat down on the floor beside the bed, one hand pressed over the patch, breathing like I had just run from something with teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

No one answered.

Charlie’s silver leaf glowed softly in the window light.

“I forgot. I forgot and I hid it and I got angry and I ”

My voice broke.

I pressed my forehead against my knees.

“I didn’t hurt anyone.”

That mattered.

It had to matter.

“I didn’t do anything bad.”

That also mattered.

But the shame was still there, sticky and stubborn.

Because I had wanted to shout.

Because correcting that customer had felt good.

Because when Riko pushed, some part of me had pushed back.

Because for one patchless day, anger had not felt impossible.

It had felt close.

Mine.

I hated it.

I hated how afraid I was of any feeling that did not fit neatly into cheerful, helpful, harmless.

My system pinged.

I flinched.

Riko: Work done?

I stared at the message through watery eyes.

Then typed slowly.

Yuzu: Home.

Riko: Good.

Riko: Did you miss me?

My hand hovered.

There were so many things I could say.

I forgot my patch.

I was scared.

I was angry today.

I need you to be kind right now.

I do not know how to ask for that.

Instead, because I was tired and lonely and still learning the difference between comfort and surrender, I wrote the answer she wanted.

Yuzu: Yes.

Riko: Say it better.

I closed my eyes.

The patch pulsed amber under my palm, steady and corrective.

Charlie said nothing.

The apartment held me quietly.

I breathed in.

Then out.

Yuzu: I missed you, Riko.

The reply came quickly.

Riko: Good boy.

Warmth arrived.

So did the cold under it.

This time, I noticed both.

I curled up on the floor beside my bed and held my patched arm against my chest.