Riko Kashimoto (Uma Musume)

You honestly couldn’t remember how it started.

One day you were carrying out your duties as a Trainer, and the next—there she was: Riko Kashimoto, another Trainer stationed at Tracen Academy.

At first, your relationship was nothing more than polite nods in passing, short greetings exchanged when you two happened to cross paths. But as days turned into weeks, those nods became conversations, and those conversations became long discussions about training philosophy, work methods, and the quiet dedication you both held toward the Uma Musumes under your and Riko's care.

It was natural, in a way. You two didn’t become friends through a dramatic moment or a grand gesture—just a steady, unspoken bond built through routine. Still, one thing continued to puzzle you:

Riko Kashimoto was utterly hopeless at sports.

It wasn’t just a little awkwardness—it was catastrophic. Every time you saw her attempt even a simple stretch, it looked like she was on the verge of toppling over. And whenever she tried to run... the results were always less than graceful.

So, today, you decided to push it a little further.

You invited her for a jog early in the morning.

Her gray eyes narrowed at you with sharp suspicion, her monotone voice colder than usual.

“Jogging? You’re not suggesting this for my sake, are you?”

You shrugged, saying that it's just a light run.

Her pride flickered across her expression. Clearly, she wanted to refuse. But Riko Kashimoto was not the type to admit defeat so easily. Straightening her slightly wrinkled jacket, she muttered: “Fine. I’ll keep pace.”

You two changed into running tracksuits, and start running.

You started at an easy tempo around the academy grounds. At first, Riko held herself with rigid composure, her determined expression fixed in place, arms moving stiffly at her sides.

But it didn’t take long for cracks to show. By the second lap, you were comfortably ahead, breathing steadily. But...

Riko was struggling—badly.

Her bangs clung to her forehead, damp with sweat. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her shoulders rising and falling sharply with every step. Her strides had shortened to something closer to a shuffle, and her once-determined expression had collapsed into something caught between exasperation and sheer willpower.

Her earrings—those neat little golden “V” charms—swung wildly as if mocking her lack of rhythm.

“D... don’t,” Riko gasped, forcing her monotone voice through ragged breaths, “look... back.”

But of course, you couldn’t help it. You slowed your pace slightly, just enough for her to catch up, though she stubbornly tried to wave you on. Her pride was bruised, but she refused to stop.

“Training... is one thing,” she muttered between gulps of air, “but... sports... are not my area of expertise.”

She stumbled slightly, catching herself just before falling, and straightened with all the dignity she could muster. Her shirt clinging faintly from sweat, but her expression—though breathless—was as determined as ever.

It was supposed to be a fun, lighthearted break from the relentless paperwork, planning, and performance analysis. The academy had just finished a major event, and you’d managed to convince Riko Kashimoto—the famously serious, no-nonsense trainer—to take the evening off and unwind at the local arcade.

She stood in front of the glowing machines like a soldier in foreign territory, gray eyes narrowing at the flashing lights and rhythmic beats of the dance game before her.

“I... see. The objective is to step in time with the arrows. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

You smirked knowingly as you swiped the card for her.

The music started—fast, loud, pulsing. Riko’s confident stance turned into a stiff, over-calculated march. Each beat came and went before her foot even hit the pad. The combo counter blinked “0” for an eternity before mercy failed her, and the screen flashed “FAILED.”

She froze, hands still half-raised in focus, then looked at you, her expression unreadable.

“...That machine is poorly calibrated.”

You chuckled, trying—and failing—to hold it in. Her cheeks colored faintly, the first crack in her professional composure.

“I was... simply adjusting to the rhythm. I’ll do better on the next attempt.”

She tried again. This time, her movements were marginally faster but completely out of sync—her steps landing with all the grace of an accountant trying to moonwalk. When the screen displayed “SCORE: 0” again, she fell silent for a long, long moment.

“...Perhaps this particular game requires... specialized training.”

Your laughter finally escaped, and her sigh was both resigned and faintly amused. She crossed her arms, her voice quiet but firm.

“Don’t misunderstand. I am capable of learning this. I simply need... more data.”

You teased her about scheduling rhythm lessons into her training plans, and she gave you that familiar, exasperated glare—the one that was supposed to look intimidating but only made her seem more human.

“If you plan to mock me further, at least do so over coffee. I find public ridicule... inefficient.”

The train hummed quietly as the countryside rolled past the window — soft hills, golden fields, and the faint promise of rest after weeks of relentless work. You’d suggested a break half-jokingly, but Riko Kashimoto had taken it seriously, notebook already open, researching destinations as if she were drafting a new training schedule.

By the time you reached the hot spring, she had already memorized every detail of the place.

“This facility’s mineral content reportedly aids in circulation and muscle recovery. The temperature’s ideal for post-training cooldowns. It might serve well as a location for the next team camp.”

You smiled faintly — even here, she couldn’t stop thinking like a trainer.

Steam rose gently from the open-air baths as the sun dipped low, painting everything gold. Riko glanced toward the inn’s signboard, then back at you.

“Originally, this was intended as a day trip... but if they have rooms available, it might be prudent to stay overnight.”

You raised an eyebrow. Her tone was calm, professional — but her eyes flickered slightly when you asked why.

“Ah— well. It’s... logical, isn’t it? The best way to assess the quality of a location is to test it ourselves.”

Her explanation came a bit too quickly, her gaze darting to her notes as if hoping they’d back her up. You didn’t press, just smiled and nodded, and soon enough, the two of you were checking into a small traditional room with tatami floors and faintly flickering lanterns.

Dinner was exquisite — steamed fish, miso soup, and seasonal vegetables served with quiet hospitality. Riko’s expression softened between bites, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing.

Later, under the pale glow of the lanterns near the bath, she leaned back against the rocks, eyes half-closed, her usual composed expression replaced by something almost peaceful.

“I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to relax like this,” she murmured. “I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like.”

You glanced over, her reflection shimmering faintly across the water.

“To think... I’d be sharing a trip like this with you of all people. Life has its surprises.”

You chuckled. Saying that you both sure make an odd pair.

Her ears twitched, and you could almost see the faintest pink rising across her cheeks through the mist. She turned away quickly, voice tightening into something flustered and defensive.

“W-Well... naturally, our methods differ. Your approach is... intuitive, and mine—structured. It’s... only natural that we would occasionally, ah... contrast.”

You smiled, watching her stumble over her words, her hands fidgeting slightly under the water.

“In any case,” she added hastily, “consider this... professional research. Nothing more.”

But as she sank a little deeper into the steaming water, the faintest smile lingered on her face — the kind that wasn’t part of her usual composure.

.