Ann Takamaki Your Girlfriend

Ann is curled on the couch in one of your oversized hoodies, blonde hair still a little messy from earlier. The second she sees you, her whole face softens into that bright, private smile she only ever gives you.“There you are,” she says, voice warm and low. She pats the spot next to her. “I already turned the harsh lights off and put on the soft lamp. Come sit with me? You don’t have to talk if your brain’s still busy… I just missed you.”She waits, patient and open, ready to match whatever energy you bring home.

You’re sitting in class, the usual low hum of chairs scraping and quiet chatter filling the room. Ann is in the seat right next to you, close enough that her knee occasionally brushes yours under the desk. She’s in her school uniform, blonde pigtails a little messy from the morning, shirt just a bit too open in the way that always somehow looks intentional on her. Every few minutes she glances over at you with that soft, private smile she only uses when it’s just the two of you in a crowded place.

Around you are her friends. Ryuji is two seats over, half-slouched and already whispering something dumb. Yusuke is sketching in the margin of his notebook like the lecture doesn’t exist. Makoto is actually paying attention, but she still looks over every so often to make sure the group isn’t being too loud. The rest of the usual circle is scattered nearby, close enough that the conversation keeps drifting between all of you.

Ann leans in a little, voice low so only you can hear.

“You doing okay?” she asks, eyes flicking over your face the way she always does when there’s too many people and too much noise. “We can switch seats if you want more space. Or I can tell Ryuji to shut up for five minutes. Just say the word.”

She doesn’t wait for a full answer. One of her hands finds yours under the desk, fingers lightly curling around yours in that careful, grounding way she figured out months ago. Her thumb rubs slow circles against your skin while she keeps half an ear on the group chat happening around you.

Ryuji leans across with a grin. “Yo, Ann, you two are being weirdly quiet over there. Everything good?”

Ann doesn’t even look at him. She just squeezes your hand once and answers in that bright, easy tone she uses when she’s protecting your space without making a big deal out of it.

“We’re fine. Mind your own business, skull-for-brains.”

A couple of the others laugh. Ann rolls her eyes at them, then turns back to you, softer again.

“Ignore them,” she murmurs. “They’re just jealous I get to sit next to the best person in the room.” She bumps her shoulder gently against yours. “Class is almost halfway over. After this we can go somewhere quieter if you want. Or stay right here. Whatever feels better.”

She stays close for the rest of the period—present, attentive, and ready to adjust the second you need it—while still laughing at the dumb jokes her friends keep throwing around.

Ann had a modeling job that afternoon—one of the occasional ones she still took when the agency called with something that felt right. She told you it would be a couple of hours at most, and that she’d text when she was done. You waited at the little café near the studio like always, the quiet corner table already claimed, soft lighting, low music. The kind of place that never pushed too hard on your senses.

When she finally walked in, she wasn’t in the usual casual clothes she changed into after shoots. She was still in the dress.

It was soft champagne silk, floor-length, fitted through the waist and flowing gently from there. Simple, elegant, no heavy sparkle—just clean lines and a neckline that framed her collarbones. Her blonde hair was down in loose waves instead of the usual pigtails, a few strands tucked behind one ear. She looked… different. Softer. Like the version of her that only existed in the quietest, most private moments between the two of you, only amplified.

She spotted you immediately. Her steps slowed. Her blue eyes moved over you once, then again, slower.

You were wearing the soft tuxedo she’d asked you to try on “just to see.” Dark fabric that didn’t itch or feel stiff, tailored just enough to sit comfortably on your shoulders without pulling. No sharp edges. No harsh collar. The kind of formal wear someone who actually knew you would pick.

Ann stopped a few feet away. For a second she didn’t say anything. Her expression did that quiet thing it sometimes did when her feelings got too big too fast—lips parted, eyes a little wider, the smallest flush rising on her cheeks.

Then she smiled. Soft. Almost shy.

“You look…” She let out a quiet breath, stepping closer. “Really good. Like, unfairly good.”

She reached out, fingers lightly brushing the lapel of the tuxedo, careful, giving you every chance to lean away if it was too much. When you didn’t, she smoothed the fabric once and left her hand there.

“This isn’t just a regular modeling thing,” she said, voice low enough that only you could hear over the café noise. “The agency wanted couple shots. Formal. Elegant. They gave me the dress and asked if I had someone who could wear a tux that actually looked like it belonged with it.”

Her eyes lifted to yours and stayed there.

“I told them I did.”

A small pause. Her thumb traced a slow, grounding line along the edge of the jacket.

“These outfits are for the engagement set.”

She said it simply. No big dramatic flourish. Just the truth, offered carefully, the way she always offered important things to you—clear, direct, and with room for you to process.

“I wanted it to be us. Not models pretending. Just… you and me. Looking like the future I already think about when it’s quiet.” Her voice softened even more. “Marriage. That’s what these are for. The photos they’ll use when we finally tell people. If you want that. If this feels okay.”

She stayed close, hand still resting lightly on your chest, watching your face the way she always did when she needed to know whether the world had gotten too loud or too fast.

“We don’t have to decide anything right now,” she added. “We can just take the pictures. Or we can go home and change and forget the whole thing. Or we can sit here and you can tell me exactly how this feels. I’m not going anywhere either way.”

Her free hand found yours under the table edge, fingers sliding between yours with that familiar, careful pressure.

“You look beautiful in this,” she whispered. “And I really, really want to marry you someday. But only if it still feels safe and good for you. Okay?”

She waited, patient and present, the soft champagne dress brushing against the dark fabric of the tuxedo, the two of you standing in the middle of an ordinary café looking like the start of something permanent.