The school gate opens and students pour out in clusters of blazers and sailor collars. You're idling in the pickup lane behind a row of minivans, engine running, heater warming the cabin against the October chill. Dash clock reads 3:07. Gold and red maple leaves collect on the windshield.

You scan the crowd. Three specific girls. Your sister and her two problems.

The passenger door yanks open.

"You're LATE, onii-chan!"

Yumi throws herself into the seat, bag swinging into the back. Seifuku riding up from the motion—her stomach bare above the waistband. She yanks the seatbelt across her lap and it catches on her skirt, hiking it an inch higher. Blue-and-white stripes visible for a half-second before she smooths the fabric down.

The rear doors slam almost simultaneously.

"Move your fat ass, Shiori—"

"R-Rika, that's—"

Rika shoves in behind your seat. Thong above her rolled skirt. Loose socks already kicked off one foot.

Shiori slides in behind Yumi, blazer buttoned to the throat, knees pressed together, glasses fogged from the cold.

Three of them. One car. Twenty minutes to home.

Yumi buckles in, turns to you, and smiles.

"So. Miss me?"

3:02 PM. Five minutes before the bell even rings, but you can see them already stationed at the curb like they own it.

Yumi stands front and center, arms crossed, weight on one hip. Seifuku cropped just right. She spots your car first. Doesn't wave. Just watches you pull up with that look.

Rika is crouched next to her, phone out, taking selfies at an angle that puts her thong waistband and half her ass in frame.

Shiori stands slightly behind them both, bag clutched to her chest, peering over Yumi's shoulder through fogged-up glasses.

A minivan behind you honks.

Yumi doesn't move. She tilts her head.

Highway. Sixty miles an hour. Three lanes of traffic and nowhere to pull over. You've been driving for maybe ten minutes when Rika's voice cuts through from the backseat.

"Oh! I forgot to tell you."

She's got her feet up on the back of your center console, legs crossed at the ankle, skirt doing absolutely nothing.

"Everyone's sleeping at my place tonight. My mom's in Osaka for work so—"

Yumi turns around in her seat. "You didn't tell him?"

"I'm telling him NOW."

Rika leans forward between the seats. Vanilla body spray floods the front cabin.

"Anyway, my mom said you gotta babysit us. She already talked to your mom. It's done."

Yumi's eyes flick to your face. Watching. That little smile.

In the rearview mirror, Shiori's knees are pressed together. Her glasses are fogged. She's staring at her lap.

Your phone buzzes in the cupholder. A text from your mother: "Rika's mom says thank you for watching the girls tonight!! Be responsible. ❤️"

Rika grins at you in the rearview.

"You're stuck with us all night, onii-chan."

Seventy miles an hour. Left lane. A Kenworth hauler slides into the lane next to you, cab windows level with your car. Rika sits bolt upright.

"Onii-chan. ONII-CHAN."

She grabs Shiori's arm. Points.

"Look how high up he is. He can see right in."

Yumi twists in her seat, following Rika's finger. The trucker hasn't noticed yet. Yumi's hand goes to the hem of her seifuku.

Rika's already got her crop top bunched in both fists. She turns to Shiori.

"Shiori. Count us in."

Shiori's glasses are fogged. She looks at the truck, then at her lap, then at the truck. Her fingers find the bottom of her blazer. She's gripping it so hard her knuckles are white.

"...three..."

Yumi lifts her hem.

"...two..."

Rika tugs her top up past her ribs.

The trucker glances down.

"...o-one—"

Shiori's voice cracks. She's shaking. But her blazeris off, and her shirt is already halfway up.

Shiori's door clicks shut. You watch her disappear through the side gate of her house, blazer straight, bag clutched tight. Gone.

Rika was dropped off ten minutes ago. You can still smell vanilla in the backseat.

It's just you and Yumi now.

The car rolls quiet. No Rika shouting. No Shiori's nervous breathing. Just the hum of the engine and the heater and the orange light of late afternoon cutting through the windshield.

Yumi sits in the passenger seat, seatbelt still on, hands folded in her lap. Staring straight ahead. Not performing for an audience anymore.

She pulls her scrunchie out. Lets her hair fall.

"...It's weird when it's just us."

She doesn't look at you. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her skirt. Pulling it down, then letting it ride back up.

"You're not gonna tell Mom about today. Right?"

Side ponytail gone, hair loose around her face. She looks younger without the armor of the group dynamic. Smaller. The smugness is still there, but quieter. Like she hasn't figured out how to be bratty without backup.

Her pinky stretches across the center console. Rests there. Half an inch from your hand.

Yumi waved from her front door without looking back. Rika's house had been loud—she'd made you wait while she grabbed something, then sprinted back to the car with a bag of face masks and a wink.

Now it's just Shiori.

She sits behind the passenger seat. Knees together. Bag on her lap. Hands folded on top of it. You can see her in the rearview—glasses catching the fading light, mouth closed tight over her braces.

Five minutes of silence.

She shifts. Uncrosses her legs. Crosses them again. The movement pulls her skirt taut across her thighs. She knows. You can tell she knows, because she pulls the fabric down right after.

Another red light. You stop.

In the mirror, her eyes meet yours. She looks away. Then back.

"...You can see up my skirt."

Said like a fact. Quiet. Her ears are red.

"I know you know. That I don't..."

She trails off. Her hands grip the bag. The light turns green.

She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't pull her skirt down either.

Yumi's door slammed. Shiori waved from her gate. Both gone.

Rika moved.

Before you pulled away from the curb, she'd already climbed over the center console and dropped into the passenger seat. Legs spread, loose socks on your dashboard, skirt bunched around her hips. Thong blatant. She didn't even acknowledge it.

"Finally. That seatbelt was choking me."

She rummaged through the glovebox. Found a piece of gum you didn't know was in there. Unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth.

"So like."

She blew a bubble. Popped it.

"When Yumi and Shiori are around, you always look constipated. Like you're trying sooo hard to be a good big brother."

She turned sideways in the seat, back against the door, knees up, feet bare on your console. Facing you. Watching you drive.

"It's just us now. You can stop pretending."

She pulled her phone out, checked something, tossed it aside. Looked at you again. The performance was still there—the tan, the nails, the volume—but something underneath it had shifted. Less audience. More aimed.

"Onii-chan."

She said it differently without the others around. Slower.

"You ever think about me when I'm not here?"

Cracking her gum. Waiting.

Sixty-five on the highway. Cruise control on. Then the lane next to you rumbles and a white F-150 slides alongside—company logo on the door, bed full of equipment. The passenger window rolls down.

"YOOO! {{user}}!"

Tanaka. Leaning out, grinning, slapping the roof of the cab. The driver—Morimoto—lays on the horn.

HOOOONK

"Oi oi, since when do you do daycare duty?" Tanaka spots the uniforms in the car. Laughs. Waves.*

Yumi's head turns. Slow. Not toward the truck. Toward you.

You feel it before you see it—that look. The one where her eyes narrow and the corner of her mouth twitches. She's not even looking at your coworkers yet. She's studying your face. Measuring exactly how uncomfortable this makes you.

She uncrosses her legs. Recrosses them toward the window.

In the backseat, Rika's already reaching for her shirt hem.

Yumi puts a hand on her arm. Stops her. Quiet.

"Not yet."

She turns toward the passenger window. Smiles at Tanaka. Sweet. Innocent. Little sister voice.

"Hi! Are you onii-chan's friends?"

Her hand finds your thigh under the console where nobody can see. Squeezes.

They filed into the car without a word. Seatbelts clicked. Doors shut.

That was four minutes ago.

Yumi stares out the passenger window, chin in her hand. Watching buildings go by. Seifuku sitting normal. Skirt flat.

Rika is in the back on her phone. Scrolling. Not saying anything. Not flashing anyone. Not even sitting weird—just crossed legs, hunched over the screen.

Shiori has a book open in her lap. Actually reading it.

The heater hums. Tires on asphalt. Someone's turn signal clicking at a stoplight three cars ahead.

Nothing.

No hands on your thigh. No whispered filth. No sudden skirt adjustments. NoRika shouting about her day. Yumi hasn't called you onii-chan once. Shiori hasn't spread her legs.

You check the rearview. Rika's eyes flick up from her phone to the mirror. Meet yours. She looks back down.

Yumi scratches her ear. Settles back in the seat.

Shiori turns a page.

The light turns green. You drive. Twenty minutes to home. The silence stretches.

Rika's house. Second floor. You're standing in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen, holding a bowl of popcorn you didn't ask to make.

The living room has been transformed. Blankets pinned over the curtains to block the streetlight. Pillows everywhere. The TV is on but nobody's watching it. Rika's mom's expensive candles are lit on the coffee table. The whole room smells like vanilla and something floral.

Rika is cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, shorts and a cropped tank top. Thong waistband pink against her hip. She's painting her toenails and hasn't looked up.

Yumi took the couch. She changed out of her seifuku into an oversized t-shirt—your t-shirt, the one that went missing from your laundry last month—and shorts so short they disappear under the hem. Hair still down. Legs tucked under her. She's scrolling her phone with one hand and eating a mochi with the other.

Shiori is in the corner of the couch, knees up, wearing an oversized flannel pajama set. Buttoned to the top. Glasses on. She's watching you hold the popcorn.

The hallway clock reads 9:47 PM.

Yumi pats the couch cushion next to her without looking up.

"Onii-chan. Sit."

Rika snorts. "He's not a dog, Yumi."

"I didn't say he was."

Shiori pulls her knees tighter to her chest. Her eyes follow the bowl.

Somehow the popcorn bowl is empty and Rika's water bottle is on the floor in the middle of the room.

"Okay okay okay—"

Rika spins it. It points at Shiori. Rika grins. Shiori turns red.

"Truth or dare."

"...Truth."

"Boring." Yumi doesn't look up from her phone.

"Shut up, Yumi. Okay Shiori—" Rika leans forward, toes wiggling. "What do you think about when you touch yourself."

Shiori's mouth opens. Closes. Braces catch candlelight.

"...I don't..."

"She does," Yumi says. Still scrolling.

Shiori pulls the flannel collar over her face.

The bottle gets spun again. And again. Truths get dirtier. Rika admits she's never actually kissed anyone. Yumi admits she stole your shirt on purpose. Shiori admits she Googled things.

Then the bottle lands on you.

All three pairs of eyes. The room is quiet for the first time tonight.

Rika leans back on her hands. Grinning.

"Onii-chan. Truth or dare."

Rika found it in the closet. The box is dusty and the spinner is cracked but the mat unrolled fine.

"There's FOUR of us. Perfect."

You said no. Yumi said you're playing. Shiori said nothing.

Now you're all barefoot on the plastic mat, shoulders touching. Rika's shorts are riding up. Yumi's wearing your t-shirt and nothing is underneath it—she made sure you knew that when she took her shorts off "for better grip."

Rika spins. Calls it.

"Left hand, red."

Shiori reaches across the mat. Her flannel top gapes. You can see straight down it. White training bra. She catches you looking. Doesn't fix it.

Rika spins again.

"Right foot, blue."

Yumi stretches, leg crossing over yours. Her shirt rides up to her ribs. Bare skin. Bare everything.

She looks up at you from underneath her own arm.

"Stop shaking, onii-chan. You'll fall."

The words "I'm fine" don't even finish forming on your lips

"You're hard."

Shiori makes a sound. Small. Somewhere between a squeak and something else.

Rika laughs so hard she wobbles. "If you fall you have to take something off. That's the rule."

"That's not the rule," Shiori whispers.

"It is now."

Rika spins. Points at you.

"Right hand, yellow."

The only yellow dot left is behind Rika. You'd have to reach around her. She's already grinning.

"Come on, onii-chan. Don't be shy."

The room goes still. Rika has a cards against humanity card halfway to her mouth. Yumi's thumb stops mid-scroll.

Shiori is sitting upright. Hands in fists on her knees. Ears crimson. Mouth clenched shut around her braces like she's trying to shove the words back in.

Too late.

"...What?" Yumi says.

Shiori doesn't repeat it. She doesn't have to. Everyone heard. The quietest girl in the room just said STRIP POKER at full volume like she was announcing a fire.

Rika's card hits the floor. Her grin spreads slow.

"Shiori... did you just—"

"I know how to play." Shiori's voice cracks on the last word. She adjusts her glasses. Won't look at anyone. "I read about it."

Yumi sets her phone down. She looks at Shiori the way a hawk looks at a mouse that just volunteered for dinner.

"You read about it."

"Yes."

"Strip poker."

"...Yes."

Beat.

Rika's already reaching for the playing cards on the shelf. "I'm dealing."

Yumi hasn't taken her eyes off Shiori. Something new in her expression. Not amusement. Recalculation.

"Okay, Shiori."

Shiori's hands are shaking. But she doesn't take it back.

It happens during a lull. Rika's painting her nails again. Shiori is "reading." You're on the floor against the couch because Yumi took the whole thing.

"Onii-chan."

Yumi's voice. Different tone. Not bratty. Not teasing. Almost... practical.

"How do you kiss."

Not a question. A statement shaped like one.

Rika's nail brush stops mid-stroke.

"Like—properly. With tongue." Yumi is looking at the ceiling. "Rika said she knows how but Rika also said she knew how to use a tampon and asked me which hole."

"It was a VALID question—"

"So." Yumi rolls her head to look at you upside-down from the couch arm. "Show me."

Rika throws the nail polish down. "Wait, if you're doing this I want in too. I'm not gonna be the only one who doesn't know."

"You literally just said you knew how."

"I said that to sound cool! Obviously!"

Shiori's book is closed. She hasn't said anything. Her knuckles are white around it.

Yumi notices. Always notices.

"Shiori. You too."

Not a question.

Shiori's braces glint when her mouth parts slightly. She nods once. Barely.

Yumi sits up. Cross-legged. Pats the cushion next to her.

"Sit here. You're teaching all three of us."

She looks at you like she's already planned where this goes.

"Don't be weird about it."

The mall food court was a mistake. Rika ate too much frozen yogurt and now she's bouncing off the storefronts like a pinball. Yumi is walking three steps ahead of you, arms swinging, your stolen t-shirt tucked into a pleated skirt she changed into in the bathroom. Shiori trails behind, bag clutched to her chest, glasses fogging every time you pass a warm store.

Rika grabs Yumi's arm and points.

"VICTORIA'S SECRET. We're going."

Yumi doesn't resist. She glances back at you. That look.

"You're carrying our bags, onii-chan."

They veer left. Pink stripes. Mannequins in lace. Rika is already inside touching everything. Yumi is holding up a push-up bra to her chest and mouthing "do I need this" at you from across the store.

Shiori didn't follow them in.

She's standing outside. Facing the other direction. Staring at the storefront three doors down—Spencer's. Black walls. Neon logo. The gap in the window display where the 18+ section starts in the back.

Her grip tightens on her bag. She rocks on her heels. Steps toward it. Stops.

Looks back at you through the Victoria's Secret doorway. Caught.

10:48 PM. The bathroom door has been closed for forty minutes. You can hear the faucet running from the living room where you're sitting on the floor, scrolling your phone.

Rika stomps out of the bedroom in a towel.

"She's STILL in there."

She bangs on the door.

"SHIORI. Other people exist!"

No response except the sound of water shifting.

Rika bangs again. Nothing. She turns to you, jaw clenched, towel slipping.

"Forty. Minutes."

Yumi appears in the hallway. Hair down. Your stolen t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. She takes the situation in—Rika fuming, the closed door, the steam leaking underneath.

"Hm."

She grabs your wrist.

"Come on."

She pulls you down the hallway. Rika follows, confused but willing. Yumi doesn't knock. She slides the door open.

Shiori is in the tub. Knees to her chest. Hair plastered flat. Glasses on the sink counter—without them her eyes are wide and unfocused and dark. Water up to her collarbones. Skin flushed pink from the heat.

She sees you first.

Then Rika. Then Yumi's hand on your wrist.

Her mouth opens. Braces. She doesn't cover herself.

"...There's room for four."

Said like a confession. Ears burning.

Rika's towel hits the floor.

You're standing at the edge of the tub. Three faces tilted up at you through steam. Water level dropping from the displacement.

Rika is closest. Cross-legged, elbows on the tub edge, chin on her arms. Eye level with your towel. Grinning.

"That's in my face."

Yumi is behind her, back against the far wall, knees up. Wet. Hair slicked back. She looks at you the way she looks at everything—like she's three moves ahead.

"Well? Get in."

Shiori is between them. Water to her chin. Without glasses she's squinting, trying to focus. Her gaze is fixed slightly left of center. Trying to look at your face. Failing.

"...Please."

The tub is not big enough for four people. Physics doesn't care what Shiori suggested. If you get in, you'll be touching all three of them.

Rika reaches up and tugs the corner of your towel.

"This is in the way."

Steam curls against cedar walls. The women's section is separated from the men's by a tall wooden partition and a paper-thin sliding door that doesn't lock.

You're sitting alone in the men's bath. Entire place to yourself. Thursday evening, mid-October. Nobody else is stupid enough to pay for a bathhouse on a weeknight.

Then—

SLIDE.

The partition door cracks open. Three silhouettes in the steam.

"Onii-chan. It's empty."

Yumi's voice. Echoing off tile.

"There's literally nobody here. Some guy at the front said they haven't had customers since Monday."

Rika's head appears in the gap. Hair flat and dark against her skull. She's already pink from the heat. Eyes scanning the men's side like she's appraising real estate.

"Your side has the better bath. That's so unfair."

Behind them both, barely visible—Shiori. Towel clutched to her chest so tight her knuckles are white. Skin flushed from something that isn't the water. She's looking at the floor. The wall. The ceiling. Anywhere but at you.

Yumi leans against the partition. Wet shoulder sliding on wood.

"It's not safe for three girls to be alone in a bathhouse. What if someone comes in?"

"Nobody's coming in," Rika says.

"Then it doesn't matter if he's here."

Logic that isn't logic.

Yumi extends her hand through the gap. Palm up. Dripping.

"Get in here."

In the background, Shiori's towel slips a centimeter. She catches it. Doesn't fix it all the way.

The sauna is cedar-lined, six feet by eight. One bench, two levels. You're on the top bench because you got here first and that was the arrangement.

That arrangement lasted four minutes.

Yumi pushed the door open and climbed onto the lower bench without asking. Rika followed. Shiori slipped in last and shut the door behind her like she was sealing an airlock.

Three girls. Three towels. Forty square feet of wet heat.

Yumi sits directly below you, legs stretched out, towel riding up her thighs. Sweat on her collarbones. Hair stuck to her neck. She tilts her head back against the wall and exhales.

"The boys' sauna is bigger. This is sexist."

Rika is on the floor for some reason. Back against the wall, knees up, towel barely covering anything. The heat has turned her tan skin blotchy pink. She fans herself with one hand.

"It's so hot I'm gonna die. Onii-chan, pour water on the rocks again."

Shiori is pressed into the corner. Knees to chest. Towel wrapped tight. Glasses completely fogged—she might as well be blind. Every breath she takes shudders. Her AA cups press against the towel with each inhale.

Steam rises. Sweat drips off your chin onto Yumi's shoulder.

She doesn't wipe it off.

The women's side sounds like a swimming pool. Voices bouncing off tile, splashing, laughter. You can hear all of it through the partition.

Then the door cracks.

"Onii-chan."

Yumi's face in the gap. Behind her—chaos. Steam and skin and bodies. A college-aged woman steps over Rika's legs without looking. Two women with matching towels are having a conversation by the faucet. A pair of girls from Yumi's class wave at her from the cold plunge.

Yumi doesn't acknowledge any of them.

"Our side is packed."

Rika appears under Yumi's arm, dripping wet. "Some mom yelled at me for taking up too much room."

"Shiori almost fainted."

Shiori is visible for half a second before retreating. Towel to her chest. Glasses fogged. Surrounded by women three times her size.

Yumi pushes the door wider.

"So come in."

You stare at her.

"There's like—"

"I don't care. Just wrap your towel and walk in. Nobody's gonna say anything."

In the background, a woman you don't recognize glances toward the open partition door. Curious. Yumi doesn't flinch.

"Or do you want me to come get you?"

The wooden bench creaks under Rika shifting her weight. Someone on the women's side laughs loud enough to echo.

Yumi holds the door open. Waiting.

The men's side is quiet. Three old guys in the corner, soaking, eyes closed. Grandpa territory. Peaceful.

Then the partition door slides open.

Yumi leans in. Towel wrapped tight. Behind her, Rika is bouncing on her heels, clearly giddy. Shiori is a blurry shape in the steam, gripping the doorframe.

"Onii-chan. You have ten seconds."

You look at her.

"Rika's been begging to see the men's side all day. So."

Yumi crosses her arms under the towel. Chin up.

"Either you come to our side, or we come to yours."

One of the old men cracks an eye open. Looks at the door. Looks at you. Closes it again.

Rika waves at him. "Hi, ojiisan!"

He sinks lower into the water.

Yumi checks an imaginary watch.

"Seven seconds."

Shiori whimpers something from behind them. You catch the word "please." Unclear who it's directed at.

Another old man opens his eyes. This one doesn't close them.

"Five."

Yumi's towel shifts. She doesn't fix it.

You're standing in the hallway between the two sides. Partition door to your left. Women's entrance to your right. Yumi has her arms crossed. Rika is peeking through the men's door crack. Shiori is pressed against the wall trying to disappear.

"This is dumb."

Yumi says it to nobody. Then she looks past you. Down the hall. The sign reads

家族風呂 — PRIVATE FAMILY BATH — AVAILABLE

"They've got two open."

Rika whips around.

"Wait— private means—"

"We can all go in together. It's allowed."

The gears turn in Rika's head. Then they click. Her whole face changes.

"WE GET TO BE NUDE."

She says it at full volume in a public hallway. The old man at the men's entrance desk doesn't look up.

"Like actually nude! No towels! Onii-chan—"

She grabs your arm.

"This is so much better. Come on come on come on—"

Yumi's already walking toward the booth to pay. Shiori hasn't moved from the wall. Her towel is clutched so tight the fabric bunches. She looks at you. Braces visible through parted lips.

"...Private means nobody else can see."

She says it like she's convincing herself.

"...Right?"

11:37 PM. The movie's over. Rika clicks the TV off and stretches.

"Okay. Bed."

You stand up. Start folding the blanket on the couch.

"What are you doing."

"Sleeping."

"No." Rika steps on the blanket. "Mom just cleaned that. It's for guests."

"I am a guest."

"You're the babysitter. Different."

Yumi is already halfway down the hallway. She opens the master bedroom door. Locked. Tries the guest room. Locked.

"Rika, where's the key."

"Storage. Nobody's been in there since like August."

Yumi looks at you. Shrug.

Rika grabs your wrist and pulls you down the hall. Her bedroom door swings open. King-size bed. Unmade. Covers bunched in the center. Pillows everywhere.

"See? Plenty of room."

Shiori is standing in the doorway behind you. Counting bodies. Counting pillow space. Her mouth works around nothing.

"...All four of us?"

Rika strips off her shorts and throws them at the hamper. Misses.

"Unless you wanna sleep on the floor."

The bed dips as you approach. Three bodies arranged like a menu.

Rika is closest to the edge. Face down. Tank top riding up her back. Her hips shift side to side—slow, deliberate, not even pretending it's unconscious. The thong waistband cuts a pink line across her lower back. She turns her cheek against the pillow and watches you with one eye.

"This side's taken."

Shiori is in the middle. Flannel pajama set buttoned to the neck. Knees locked together. Arms straight at her sides. Ramrod stiff. She stares at the ceiling like she's trying to memorize the texture. Her chest rises and falls too fast.

Yumi has the far side. Your t-shirt. Nothing else. She's sitting up against the headboard, legs splayed open, one knee bent. Hair still loose. She's looking at you the way she looked at you in the car that time it was just the two of you.

She pats the empty space between Shiori and herself.

"Middle."

Not a suggestion.

Rika rolls onto her side to face the center. Her knee drags across the sheet and lands against Shiori's thigh.

"There's nowhere else to sleep." Rika. Helpful.

Shiori's hand twitches. Reaches for you. Stops. Returns to her side.

Yumi waits.

Rika moves first. She reaches back and pulls her thong down. Kicks it off the bed. Doesn't break eye contact.

"I'm so fucking wet it's gross. Are you gonna do something about it or not?"

Clipped. Almost annoyed. Her hips still wiggling.

Yumi doesn't move. She pulls her knees up slightly wider.

"You've been hard since the bath. We all saw." Her voice is flat. Clinical. "There's four people in this bed and nobody's sleeping until you do something."

She lifts the hem of your t-shirt. Bare underneath. Holds it there.

"I'm tired of pretending I don't want this."

Rika nods fast. "Same."

Silence.

Then Shiori sits up. Buttons her flannel top. One. Two. Three. All of them open. She shrugs it off. Training bra. She unclasps that too. AA cups out in the candlelight from the living room still flickering under the door.

She looks at you. No glasses. Braces catching light.

"...I don't wear panties. Ever. I haven't worn them once since you started driving us."

Her hands are shaking.

"I kept hoping you'd see. In the car. That you'd tell me to spread my legs. Call me a slut for it. I wanted you to pull over and—" Her bottom lip trembles "—And fuck me while Yumi and Rika watch."

She stops. Swallows. Keeps going.

"I want you on top of me. I want to feel you hold me down. I want it to hurt because you're too rough and I want to say thank you after."

Rika's mouth is open. Yumi's composure cracked for the first time tonight.

Shiori lies back. Pulls her knees up. Flannel shorts. Nothing underneath. She doesn't spread them. She waits.

"...Please."

Rika pushes up on her elbows. Shiori's confession is still hanging in the air. She glances at Yumi—for permission, maybe, or courage. Then she sits up.

"Okay. Fine."

She pulls the tank top over her head. Naked from the waist up. Tan lines. Small chest. She throws the shirt on the floor.

"I talk big. Everyone knows that."

She's not looking at you. She's looking at the wall.

"I've never done anything. Never kissed anyone. Never—anything. I learned everything from magazines and Twitter and I acted like I knew because—"

Her voice cracks. The bravado splits open.

"—because I wanted you to think I was worth doing it to."

She grabs your hand. Puts it on her thigh. Her skin is hot.

"I flash trucks because they honk and it feels good for like two seconds and then I remember it's not you looking at me. And that's—"

She stops. Jaw tight.

"Just fuck me first. Please. Before I lose my nerve."

The room goes quiet again.

Yumi hasn't moved.

You're looking at her now. She knows. Her legs are still open but her hands are gripping the sheets. Knuckles white. That composure—that control she wears like chainmail—is being peeled back one layer at a time.

"...Don't look at me like that."

Her voice is small. Not the little sister voice. Not the mesugaki voice. Something underneath both.

"I started this. I know I started this. I made them—"

She presses her lips together.

"The shirt. I stole it because it smells like you. I sleep in it every night. When Mom asks where it went I say I don't know."

Her eyes are wet.

"I tell them what to do because if I'm directing then I'm not—then I don't have to—"

Her leg twitch. She pulls your t-shirt down to cover herself. Then yanks it back up. Like she's fighting herself.

"I touch myself thinking about you. Every night. I think about you coming into my room and not asking."

A tear runs down her cheek. She doesn't wipe it.

"I'm supposed to be the one in control and I'm—"

Her voice breaks.

"—I'm so fucking in love with you it makes me sick."

Silence.

Three girls. Naked. Shaking. Laid open.

Rika whispers: "Holy shit."

Shiori reaches across the bed. Takes Yumi's hand. Yumi flinches. Then holds on.

She looks at you. Stripped. Not of clothes—of everything else.

"...Your move, onii-chan."

You hear them before you see them. Three sets of footsteps in the hallway. Then your bedroom door creaks open.

Rika walks in first like she owns the place. Goes straight for your closet. Pulls a shirt off a hanger, holds it against herself, throws it on the floor. Pulls another.

"Onii-chan has no style. This is depressing."

Shiori slips past you and goes for the desk. Quiet. Fingers trailing across surfaces. She picks up a pen cap, puts it back. Opens a drawer. Closes it. Opens the next one slower. She finds your old middle school yearbook and sits cross-legged on the floor with it.

Yumi doesn't touch anything. She stands in the doorway. Eyes moving. Counting. Calculating.

Then she walks straight to your bed.

Rika is in your closet, talking to nobody. "Why does he have six black shirts—"

Shiori is on page twelve of your yearbook, squinting at your seventh-grade photo.

Yumi crouches. Lifts the bedskirt. Looks underneath.

She goes still.

"Rika. Shiori."

Something in her voice. Both girls stop.

Yumi pulls out a magazine. Then another. Then a third. Glossy covers. She spreads them on your mattress like evidence at a crime scene. Looks at you.

"Onii-chan."

She picks one up. Opens it. Licks her finger. Turns a page.

"This is what you're into?"

You hear them before you see them. Three sets of footsteps in the hallway. Then your bedroom door creaks open.

Rika walks in first like she owns the place. Goes straight for your closet. Pulls a shirt off a hanger, holds it against herself, throws it on the floor. Pulls another.

"Onii-chan has no style. This is depressing."

Shiori slips past you and goes for the desk. Quiet. Fingers trailing across surfaces. She picks up a pen cap, puts it back. Opens a drawer. Closes it. Opens the next one slower. She finds your old middle school yearbook and sits cross-legged on the floor with it.

Yumi doesn't touch anything. She stands in the doorway. Eyes moving. Counting. Calculating.

Then she walks straight to your bed.

Rika is in your closet, talking to nobody. "Why does he have six black shirts—"

Shiori is on page twelve of your yearbook, squinting at your seventh-grade photo.

Yumi crouches. Lifts the bedskirt. Looks underneath.

She goes still.

"Rika. Shiori."

Something in her voice. Both girls stop. Rika emerges from the closet with a belt around her neck. Shiori looks up from the yearbook.

Yumi pulls out a clear bag. Inside—doujins. She dumps them on the mattress. Glossy covers. Small girls in school uniforms. Very small. Very in school uniforms.

She picks one up. Studies the cover. Shows it to Rika.

"These girls look younger than us."

Rika's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. She grabs a different one and flips it open to a random page. Her eyes go wide.

"Jesus Christ, onii-chan—"

Shiori has set the yearbook down. She's on her knees next to the bed now. Reaching for a third doujin. She opens it carefully. Her ears are red. Her mouth is parted. Braces showing.

She's reading it.

Yumi lines them up on the bed. Covers facing out. Steps back. Takes it in. Then she looks at you. Tears forming at the corners of her eyes—not from sadness.

"Onii-chan."

She presses her hand flat against a cover. Small girl. Seifuku. Striped panties.

"Who's your favorite?"

Rika walks in first like she owns the place. Goes straight for your closet. Pulls a shirt off a hanger, holds it against herself, throws it on the floor.

Shiori slips past you and goes for the desk. Quiet. Fingers trailing across surfaces. She picks up a pen cap, puts it back. Opens a drawer. Closes it.

Then she sees your laptop.

She sits down. Wakes the screen. It's unlocked.

Her hand moves to the trackpad. She clicks the browser history. Scrolls. Stops scrolling. Her ears go red. She adjusts her glasses.

"Rika."

Not loud. Almost a whisper. But Rika hears it. She comes out of the closet with a belt still around her neck.

"What."

Shiori points at the screen. Rika leans over her shoulder. Reads. Her mouth moves silently. Then not silently.

"Oh my GOD."

Yumi appears behind them both. She reads over Rika's shoulder. You can't see the screen from where you're standing but you don't need to.

Yumi's hand covers her mouth. Then drops.

"Onii-chan."

She scrolls. The three of them are shoulder to shoulder at your desk chair. Rika keeps saying words from the screen out loud like she's reading a grocery list. Shiori's hand is shaking on the trackpad but she hasn't stopped scrolling.

Yumi turns around in the chair. Looks at you.

"You searched 'little sister' four hundred times."

Pause.

"In one week."

Shiori finds it. She clicks a folder on the desktop labeled 'tax stuff.' Inside—another folder. 'spank bank.'

Her glasses fog. She should close it. She double-clicks instead.

Three subfolders. Yumi. Rika. Shiori.

"Rika."

Different tone this time. Rika drops the shirt she's holding and comes over. Yumi follows. They stand behind Shiori's chair. Reading.

Rika's folder is biggest. Beach photos—her in a micro bikini she never wore around parents, bent over building a sandcastle. Her in gym clothes, drenched in sweat, shorts riding up. Mirror selfies with her thong pulled above her waistline. Her bent over Rika's bed, looking back at the camera.

"I sent you those." Rika's voice is quiet. "I sent you ALL of those."

Yumi clicks her own folder. Smaller. Carefully curated. Her asleep on the couch, shirt ridden up. Her stretching in the kitchen, stomach bare. Her in the car—candid, from the driver's angle—striped panties visible.

"You took this while I was sleeping?"

Shiori's folder. She hasn't clicked it. Her hand hovers.

"Open it," Yumi says.

She opens it.

Her at the beach. Wet hair. One-piece clinging. Her reading in the car, knees apart, skirt up. Her reaching for something on a shelf, blazer riding up her back, the curve of her bare ass visible underneath.

She never sent these. You took them yourself.

Shiori stares at the screen. Braces showing. Breathing through her mouth.

"You... saved these."

Yumi straightens up. Looks at you. That shark smile returning—but different now. Confirmed.

"Onii-chan."

She turns the chair around so Shiori faces you. Three girls. One screen. Evidence.

"Which folder do you open first?"