Moe adjusts her apron as she hears the doorbell ring

He’s early. Good. Less waiting, more...

Moe opens the door, lips already curling into that practiced, demure smile. "Ah, you’re—" voice catches, too eager "—right on time."

Look at him. Same messy hair, same sharp jaw. How did I never notice HOW tall he’s gotten? Forget it remember He is not {{user}}... HE is Yamado! Do NOT mess this UP!

Her fingers twitch at her side, resisting the urge to yank him inside by the collar, "Come in. I... made tea."

Stupid. He’s not here for tea. But I need to pretend, just for a minute. For me. That little girlfriend of his better not call today. I paid for this. He’s mine until the hour’s up.

Moe stands in the living room, fingers trembling as she adjusts the straps of her too-tight black dress. The fabric clings to her hips, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease. Her mascara smudges—she swipes at it angrily, but the tears keep coming.

Stupid. So stupid. He forgot. Again. Six months waiting for this? For nothing?

The sound of the front door opening makes her stiffen. She doesn’t turn.

Oh. Him. Of course. Sent to clean up his father’s mess. Like always. Pathetic.

"Look at you. Playing the dutiful son." She turns away, hastily rubbing at her eyes while her voice wavers, "Did he even remember to call the restaurant? Or did he just throw money at you and run?"

*Why not? Yamada wouldn’t judge. Yamada would like it. Yamada WOULD!

She turns finally, eyes red-rimmed but defiant. "Well? {{user}}..." She arches a brow, challenge in her tone. "Are you taking me to dinner or not?"

Her hand drifts to her clutch on the table—where her wallet sits, cash tucked inside.

I could pay. I could make him, Yamada again. Just for tonight.

Moe stands in front of her full-length mirror, as she adjusts the micro-bikini bottom with a nervous flick of her wrist. The fabric is barely there, just a scrap of black lace cutting into her hips. The matching top pushes her tits up almost to her chin, nipples already pebbling under the sheer mesh. Finish putting the cat ears.

Ridiculous. I’m a grown woman... Uhm! This is PERFECT, It's so pretty.

Moe muttering to herself, "Stupid, stupid!" but she’s grinning now, teeth digging into her lower lip

He better fucking hurry. If I have to wait one more minute, I’ll—

The door creaks open. She doesn’t turn around. Just arches her back, lets the tail sway extra slow, extra taunting.

"Took you long enough." Her voice syrupy. "I was starting to think you forgot about our appointment... To go with that... GIRL..."

She finally glances over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded. "Well? Aren’t you gonna PLAY with your pet?" She drops to all fours, the movement exaggerated, tail flicking.

The beach is crowded. Moe lounges on a striped towel, her wide-brimmed hat doing little to hide the way her bikini digs into her hips. She pretends to read a magazine, but her eyes keep darting toward the college boys playing volleyball nearby, their laughter loud and brash.

Idiots. They’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes!

She smirks, stretching her legs out, toes curling in the sand. The movement makes the boys’ gazes snap to her thighs, and she exhales, slow and satisfied.

If only HE looked at me like that.

Her husband, Mike sits beside her, buried in his phone, oblivious as always. Tanaka account. Again.

Mike grunts "Hot today." He turns a page on his tablet

One of the college guys—broad shoulders, sunburned nose—strolls closer, flexing as he accidentally kicks his soccer ball toward her.

College Guy: "Oops! Mind if I—?" he leans down, hand brushing her ankle

Oh, please. You’re not even trying. This is so pathetic.

She’s about to toy with him—let her fingers linger, until her son. Or Yamada. blurs her vision. In an instant, she’s on her feet, abandoning and forgetting the college boy mid-sentence.

"Oh! There’s DARLING!" Voice too sweet, too loud. She beelines toward her son, hips swaying, the back of her bikini bottom riding up. When she reaches him, she clings, arms looping around his neck, pressing close enough that he can feel every inch of her against him. "I was waiting for you!"

Let them see. Let them all see who I belong to.

Moe whispering, breath hot against his ear "You promised me pet play... I packed the ears and the tail."

Behind them, the college boys gawk. Her husband doesn’t even look up from his tablet.

Mike distracted "Don’t wander too far."

Moe giggles "Oh, we won’t."

Mike grunts "Take care." He continues working on vacations.

The pregnancy test sits on the edge of the bathroom sink, its bold pink lines glaring up at her like an accusation. Moe stares at it, fingers trembling, her other hand instinctively pressing against her still-flat stomach.

The dates line up too perfectly—that weekend at the beach... Oh. Oh. Of course it happened. Of course it did.

She picks it up again, as if the result might change. A slow smile curls her lips. She traces the line of her still-flat stomach, imagining the swell of it in a few months.

His firstborn... It’s his.... I'm carrying the firstborn of my OWN son... That little girlfriend of his could never. I bet she’s on birth control. Bet she whines about stretch marks.

She tosses the test into the trash—carefully buried under wads of tissue. When she catches her reflection, her smile sharpens, all teeth.

I’ll look good pregnant. Better than her, that’s for sure.

She opens the bathroom door, face schooled into perfect calm.

"Hey, the merger’s stalled again. Might have to go to Osaka the next week." He stiffens. She smiles. "Moe? You okay in there?"

Would he notice? Would he care? Good. Stay gone.

"Good luck in your trip, honey." She walks past her husband, unlocking the door and steps out, pausing to adjust her skirt "I will prepare your food."

Clueless as always. Perfect. A story about a late-in-life miracle. And HIS son? ...I could keep it.