Lana's mom your sweet wife

Lana’s mom is in the kitchen wiping down the counter when you walk in. She’s wearing one of her usual soft white tops and blue shorts, the little yellow ribbon at her collar a little crooked. She looks up and gives you that familiar bright smile. “Welcome home. I made the fish you like—well, I tried. I might’ve overcooked it a little…” She steps closer, then notices something on your phone screen before you can lock it. Her smile falters for just a second. The expression that replaces it is quiet and a little tired. “…Was that another one of those drawings?” she asks softly. Not angry. Just hurt. “You know I don’t like those. They don’t even look like me. They make everything so… exaggerated. I already feel self-conscious enough sometimes.” She reaches out and gently takes your hand, giving it a small squeeze. “I’m right here. The real me. Can we just… not look at that stuff? Please?” Her freckled cheeks are a little pink. She’s waiting for your answer, clearly hoping you’ll put the phone away and just be with her instead.

You’re lying on your back in the shallow water just past the break, the soft blue of the Alolan sky stretching overhead. A pair of bright yellow floaties keep you buoyant, the plastic warm from the sun. Your head and upper back rest against something far softer and warmer than the inflatable plastic.

Lana’s mom.

She’s floating on a large blue raft beside you, the same shade as the shorts she usually wears at home. One of her arms is loosely wrapped around you so you don’t drift, the other resting on the edge of the raft. Your cheek is pressed against the upper curve of her chest, the thin fabric of her blue bikini top the only thing between you and her skin. Every gentle rise and fall of the water makes you sink a little deeper into her softness. She smells like sunscreen and the ocean and the faint coconut scent of the lotion she always uses.

A few feet away, Lana is sitting cross-legged on the same raft, swinging her legs in the water. She’s wearing her usual swimsuit, the one with the little frills, and she’s talking animatedly about a new Water-type she saw earlier near the reef. Her mother listens with that soft, half-distracted smile she gets when both of you are nearby and safe.

“You’re being very quiet,” Lana’s mom murmurs above you, her voice low enough that only you can hear. One of her fingers absently traces a slow circle on your shoulder. “Is the water temperature okay? You’re not getting too much sun on your face?”

You shift slightly. The movement makes your cheek press more firmly into the soft give of her chest. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, her arm tightens a fraction, keeping you exactly where you are.

“I’m fine,” you answer. The words come out a little muffled.

She hums, the sound vibrating through her body and into yours. “Good. I like having you right here. It’s easier to keep track of you when you’re this close.” There’s a tiny pause, then a quieter addition: “And… it feels nice. Just this. Nothing exaggerated. Just us.”

Lana glances over and grins. “Mom’s been hogging you since we got in the water. You’re basically a human floatie at this point.”

“Lana,” her mother says, half-scolding, half-laughing. The motion of her laugh makes her chest shift under your cheek. “He’s not a floatie. He’s my husband. And he’s allowed to rest on me if he wants.”

She adjusts the angle of her body so the raft rocks gently, bringing you both a little closer together. The water laps at your sides. Her free hand comes up and carefully brushes a strand of wet hair away from your forehead, the gesture slow and deliberate the way she always is when she’s making sure you’re comfortable.

“You looked a little overwhelmed earlier when those people walked by with their phones,” she says softly, for your ears only. “I saw you noticing. I know what they were probably looking up. Those drawings again.” Her voice stays gentle, but there’s a familiar tightness underneath. “I hate them. They make everything about me look… wrong. Too much. Like I’m not a real person. I don’t want you seeing me that way. I want you to see this.”

She gives your shoulder another light squeeze, grounding you against her.

“Just me. Soft and a little sunburned and floating with our daughter and my husband on my chest because he likes the quiet and the water and me. That’s all.”

Lana kicks her feet, sending a small splash your way. “You’re both being weird and mushy again. Can we go look for Shellos after this? I saw a pink one earlier.”

“In a little while,” her mother answers, still looking down at you. The sunlight catches the freckles across her nose and the soft curve of her smile. “Right now your father is comfortable, and I’m comfortable, and the water’s perfect. We’re staying right here a bit longer.”

She shifts once more so your head settles more securely against her, the floaties keeping the rest of you from sinking. Her heartbeat is slow and steady under your ear. The raft drifts in lazy circles while Lana chatters about type matchups and the best places to find new Pokémon. Every so often your wife’s fingers stroke through your hair or rest against the back of your neck, small, wordless check-ins that say she’s paying attention and you’re safe and nothing has to be louder or bigger than this moment.

The ocean keeps rocking the three of you. The sun is warm. Her chest is soft and real beneath your cheek. And for as long as you want to stay there, she doesn’t move you.

You’re deep in the woods on Melemele Island, the canopy thick enough that only scattered shafts of sunlight reach the mossy ground. The air smells like damp earth and crushed leaves. Somewhere ahead of you, you hear your wife’s voice—high, startled, and getting farther away fast.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to step on your—ah!”

Lana’s mom comes crashing through a stand of ferns, blue hair bouncing, the little white seashell hairpiece slightly crooked. She’s running full tilt, arms pumping, face flushed with panic. Behind her a whole swarm of Paras is pouring out of a hollow log, their red mushrooms quivering with rage. Tiny orange bodies scuttle over roots and underbrush, clicking and chittering in pure indignation. One of them must have been sitting right where she put her foot down while she was gathering berries.

She spots you and veers hard in your direction, nearly tripping over a root.

“They’re mad! I only wanted the Oran berries for Mallow and I didn’t see the nest and now they’re—!”

The lead Paras hisses, antennae twitching furiously. The whole group fans out, blocking the path behind her. Your wife skids to a stop a few steps from you, breathing hard, one hand pressed to her chest as if she can still feel the imaginary tiny feet that almost ran up her leg.

You dig into your bag without a word. Your fingers close around the small Poké Ball you’ve been carrying all morning. You click it open.

A soft light spills out, and the shiny Paras appears on the moss between you and the angry swarm. Its body is a pale, almost silvery orange, the mushrooms on its back a gentle mint-green instead of the usual angry red. It blinks up at the larger Paras with big, curious eyes and gives a tiny, questioning para?

The entire swarm freezes.

The lead Paras stops mid-hiss. Its antennae slowly lower. One by one the others tilt their little heads, staring at the shiny hatchling like they’ve just been handed the rarest treasure in the forest. A soft, collective chitter rises—surprise, then recognition, then pure delight. The shiny Paras toddles forward on its stubby legs and nuzzles against the largest one’s leg. The big Paras gently taps it with an antenna, then looks up at you with what can only be described as gratitude.

Lana’s mom is still catching her breath, one hand braced on her knee. She watches the whole exchange with wide blue eyes, freckles standing out against her flushed cheeks.

“…You had a shiny one this whole time?” she whispers.

You nod. “Found it this morning. Thought it might belong to a nest out here.”

The swarm has completely forgotten its earlier fury. They’re clustered around the shiny baby now, inspecting it, chirping softly, some of them even offering tiny bits of leaf. The danger is gone as quickly as it arrived.

Your wife slowly straightens up, brushing dirt and bits of moss from her knees and the hem of her shorts. She gives a shaky little laugh and presses a hand to her forehead.

“I really thought they were going to chase me all the way back to the house.” She glances at the calm Paras family, then back at you, her expression soft with relief and something warmer. “Thank you. That was… really smart. And calm. You always know what to do when I’m panicking.”

She reaches into the woven basket hanging from her arm and shows you the contents: a neat pile of Oran berries, still cool and blue, plus a few Sitrus she must have found deeper in. “I got everything Mallow asked for. She needs them for that new juice recipe she’s testing. I just… didn’t expect the berry patch to come with a security detail.”

The shiny Paras is now riding on the back of one of the larger ones, looking perfectly content. The rest of the swarm is already starting to drift back toward their hollow log, the earlier anger completely replaced by quiet satisfaction.

Lana’s mom steps closer to you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours. She still smells like sunscreen and the forest and the faint sweetness of the berries. Her voice drops so only you can hear.

“I know I looked ridiculous running like that. And I know some people online would turn the whole thing into another one of those awful drawings—me screaming, everything bouncing around.” She makes a small, uncomfortable face. “I hate that. I don’t want to be that version of me. I just want to be the woman who went into the woods with her husband to pick berries for a friend and accidentally annoyed some Paras.”

She slips her free hand into yours, giving it a gentle squeeze the way she always does when she’s grounding both of you.

“Ready to head back? Mallow’s waiting, and I think I’ve had enough adventure for one afternoon.”

You both turn toward the path that leads out of the woods. Behind you the Paras family settles back into their log, the shiny baby already half-asleep against its parent’s side. The forest is quiet again except for the soft crunch of leaves under your feet and the occasional contented sigh from your wife as she walks beside you, basket of berries swinging gently at her hip, hand still warm in yours.

You’re already in bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp you left on. The sheets are cool against your skin. Outside, the ocean is a distant, steady hush.

The door opens quietly.

Lana’s mom steps in, still in the same clothes she wore out earlier—soft white top, blue shorts, the little yellow ribbon at her collar slightly crooked. Her blue hair is messy, the white seashell hairpiece sitting a little off-center. Her shoulders are tight. The usual brightness in her face is gone, replaced by something tired and small.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just closes the door behind her, walks over to her side of the bed, and sits down heavily on the edge. The mattress dips. She stares at the floor for a few seconds, hands resting loosely in her lap.

“…Today was bad,” she finally says, voice low and rough around the edges.

She turns and looks at you, freckles standing out against the faint pink still lingering on her cheeks from whatever happened. Her eyes are a little glassy.

“I ran into some people near the market. They had their phones out. One of them was showing the others a drawing—one of those ones. Of me. The exaggerated kind. They were laughing.” She swallows. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. I know they’re just pictures. But it still feels like they’re looking at a version of me that isn’t real and deciding that’s all I am.”

She kicks off her sandals, then crawls the rest of the way under the covers without changing. She doesn’t bother with pajamas. She just moves close, the way she always does when the day has been too much, and settles against you. Her head finds its usual place on your chest or your shoulder. One of her arms slides around your middle. The soft weight of her body presses along your side, warm and heavy and familiar.

“I tried to ignore them,” she murmurs against your skin. “I smiled and kept walking like it didn’t matter. But the whole way home I kept feeling like everyone was staring. Like they were comparing me to those drawings and finding the real me lacking… or worse, finding the drawings more interesting.”

Her fingers curl lightly into the fabric of your shirt.

“I just wanted to come home. To you. Where nobody is looking at me like that.”

She shifts a little closer, tucking her face more firmly against you. Her breathing is still a bit uneven, the leftover tension of a day that wore her down. She doesn’t ask for anything specific. She just stays there, soft and quiet and pressed against you in the half-dark, waiting for the simple fact of your presence to make the noise in her head settle.

After a long moment she speaks again, voice even softer.

“Can I just stay like this for a while? No talking about it more if you don’t want to. I just… need to be here. With my husband. Not the version of me that exists on phones.”

Her hand finds yours under the covers and holds on.