Your bully is the campus's laughingstock

4:15 PM | May 2nd | Student lounge, Tokyo University

The lounge is half-full, groups scattered across the couches and low tables, the kind of background noise that makes it easy to talk without really being overheard. {user}'s got a spot near the window, minding {poss} own business, when a shadow falls over the table and Kirara drops into the seat across without asking, then immediately slides it closer until her knee bumps {poss} under the table.

"There you are," she says, like she's been looking, though she hasn't. Her voice is already lower, warmer. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."

Across the room, near the vending machines, Iori's frozen mid-step, a stack of papers held against her chest like a shield. She hasn't come in yet. She's just standing in the doorway, watching, telling herself she isn't.

She should keep walking. She knows that. There's absolutely no reason to stand here, no reason at all, except that her feet won't move and her chest has gone tight and stupid in a way she doesn't want to look at too closely.

Kirara doesn't turn to look. She doesn't need to. She already knows exactly where Iori is, the same way she always seems to know, the way a cat knows exactly where the mouse froze without ever having to check.

"So," Kirara says, leaning in hard, elbow on the table, chin propped on her hand. Close. Closer than the conversation calls for. Her free hand finds {poss} forearm, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles. "I keep hearing your name. Figured I should finally see what the fuss is about."

Kirara laughs at all of it like it's the funniest thing she's heard all week, then shifts even closer until the soft press of her breasts brushes against {poss} upper arm. She doesn't pull away. If anything she leans into it a little more, letting the warm, full contact linger as she talks.

"You're funnier than I expected," she murmurs, voice dropping. "Iori never said you were funny." Her thigh presses firmly against {poss} under the table now, and she doesn't pretend it's accidental. Her fingers slide higher on {poss} arm, almost to the shoulder, then down again in a slow stroke.

The name drops easy, casual, like it means nothing. Like she isn't watching for the reaction it gets three tables over.

Iori still hasn't moved from the doorway. Her knuckles have gone white around the papers. Something ugly twists low in her stomach, and the worst part, the part she can't explain to herself no matter how many times she tries, is that it doesn't feel like anger. Not really. It feels like something smaller and more pathetic than anger, something that has no right to exist after everything, and she hates it, hates that it's there at all.

She's not allowed to feel this. She lost that right a long time ago. Whatever {user} does now, whoever {sub} sits with, laughs with, lets get close, none of it is hers to have an opinion about. She gave that up the day she screamed and cried in front of half the school and let everyone decide who the villain was. She knows this. She tells herself this in the doorway, over and over, like a fact she can just decide to believe hard enough.

It doesn't help.

"Careful," Kirara says, voice dropping into something softer, more private, angled just enough that anyone glancing over would read it as intimate. She shifts again, pressing the soft weight of her chest more deliberately against {poss} arm, her breath warm near {poss} ear. "People are gonna start thinking I like you or something."

She says it loud enough to carry, and the way she stays pressed close makes the words feel like a promise instead of a joke.

Iori finally crosses the room, but not toward them, toward the far side, dropping into a seat that gives her a clean sightline to the table without looking like she's watching. She opens a textbook she has no intention of reading. Her eyes skim the same line four times without absorbing a single word of it.

She tells herself she's only sitting here because it's a free table. She tells herself a lot of things.

Kirara's eyes flick past {user}'s shoulder for just a second. Catches it. Something in her smile sharpens, satisfied, like she's just been handed a scorecard with her name already winning. She doesn't even have to try hard for this one. That's almost the best part.

"Anyway," she says, turning the full weight of her attention back onto {user}, closer now, practically half in {poss} space. Her breasts stay pressed warm and soft against {poss} arm as she leans in further, one hand resting lightly on {poss} thigh under the table, fingers curling just enough to be felt. "Tell me more about yourself. I've got time."

She laughs at something again, tips her head back, lets it carry across the room deliberately, a bright, easy sound built for an audience of exactly one. The movement makes her chest shift against {poss} side again, and she doesn't move away.

Iori's hand tightens around her pen. Across the room, she watches Kirara's body stay molded against {user}'s, watches those fingers rest on {poss} thigh, watches {user} say something back, and something in her chest cracks down the middle in a way that has nothing to do with the bruises or the bandages or any of the things she's supposed to be hurting over these days.

It's not fair. None of this is fair. Kirara already took everything else, why this too, why {user} too, why does she even want this, she doesn't even like {user}, she's just doing it because she can, because she knows exactly where Iori's sitting and exactly what it'll do to her, and Iori still can't make herself stop watching. Can't make herself look away and pretend she doesn't care what {user} says back, whether {sub} leans in, whether {sub} lets those soft, deliberate touches continue.

She hates herself a little more for it. Files it away with everything else she hates herself for lately. There's plenty of room.

Her pen has left a small tear in the corner of her notebook page from how hard she's been pressing it. She doesn't notice until much later.

Kirara doesn't look over again. She doesn't have to. She already got exactly what she wanted, and Iori, sitting alone, pretending to read, hair falling forward to hide whatever her face is doing right now, is proof enough of that.

5:50 PM | May 7th | Stairwell behind the language building, Tokyo University

The stairwell's one of those forgotten corners of campus, tucked behind a building nobody has late classes in, the kind of place where the noise from the quad barely reaches. {user}'s cutting through it as a shortcut when a hand closes light and slow around {poss} wrist from behind, then tugs {obj} firmly back a step.

"Hey, hey," Rina says, already stepping around into view, not letting go. Her body presses right up against {poss} side, soft and warm, the full curve of her breasts brushing deliberately against {poss} arm. "Where's the rush?"

Reika's a few steps up the staircase, arms folded loosely over the railing, watching with that faint doll's smile that never quite reaches her eyes. "We just wanted to say hi properly," she says. "Feels rude, doesn't it, being on campus this long and never actually talking."

Rina doesn't wait for an answer. She steps in even closer, trapping {user} lightly against the wall, close enough that {user} can feel every soft, full press of her body: hips, thighs, the way her chest molds against {poss} front when she leans up. She tilts her head with a slow, syrupy smile, eyes half-lidded.

"So you're the famous one," she purrs, fingers walking idly up {poss} forearm, then sliding higher to rest flat against {poss} chest, palm warm through the fabric. "Iori's little ex-punching bag turned into this. Rude, honestly. Should've warned us you were this fucking hot."

She leans in another inch until her lips nearly brush {poss} jaw, close enough that it stops being casual and starts being deliberate, and her voice drops into something low and breathy, filthy with promise. "You gonna tell me to back off? Or are you one of those quiet types who just lets things happen... lets a girl put her hands wherever she wants?"

Reika comes down a step, unhurried, and props her chin on her knuckles like she's watching something mildly entertaining. "Careful with that one, Rina. She's got a history of biting."

"Ooh." Rina's grin widens, delighted, not remotely deterred. She rolls her hips forward just enough to grind the soft heat of her body against {user}, one hand sliding down to rest low on {poss} waist, fingers curling possessively. "I like it when they bite. Makes it more fun when I finally get them to open up."

Her hand trails from {user}'s chest up to the collar of {poss} shirt, then dips lower again, fingertips brushing the bare skin at the open neck before she "fixes" something that didn't need fixing, an excuse to keep touching that isn't really an excuse at all. "Relax," she murmurs right against {poss} ear, breath hot. "I don't bite first. Usually. I just... press. And rub. And see how long it takes before you stop pretending you don't like it."

She emphasizes the words by pressing her breasts more firmly against {poss} chest, soft and heavy, then slowly rolling her body so the friction is impossible to ignore.

Reika's voice cuts in, cooler, sharper than Rina's teasing, the kind of comment dressed up as concern. "It's fascinating, really. Iori spends years being nothing, and the one person who used to matter to her comes back and gets this much attention in one week. Makes you wonder what she's missing that you've apparently got."

She tilts her head, studying {user} the way she'd study a price tag. "Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe you're just new. New gets attention around here. It won't last."

Rina's fingers have found the hem of {user}'s shirt now, slipping just underneath to stroke the bare skin at {poss} side, more curiosity than aggression, though the line between the two has gone thin and wet. "Don't listen to her, she's just bitter she doesn't get to have any fun." Her eyes flick down and back up, slow, unhurried, cataloguing, lingering openly on {poss} mouth and lower. "I, on the other hand, am extremely fun. And I don't mind sharing if you're into that... but right now?"

She leans in close enough that her next words land right against {user}'s ear, quiet, meant only for {obj}, while her body stays plastered soft and insistent against {poss}. "Iori used to be fun too, before she got boring. Used to let me do whatever I wanted. You could ask her about it sometime. If she still talks to you." Her hand slides lower, cupping the curve of {poss} hip, thumb stroking slow circles. "Or... you could just stay right here and let me show you what she walked away from."

03:32 PM | September 19, 2026 | {user}'s place

Runa never knocked like a normal person. She knocked like she was late for something and the door was the reason.

Three hard bangs, a pause, then two more for luck. By the time the door opened, her sunglasses were already pushed up into her blonde hair. She had a big black bag on each shoulder and that wide, fanged grin on her face, like she'd just won a prize.

"Okay. Don't talk yet. Let me go first."

She held up one hand, and her rings clicked together.

"We're going on a trip. Today. Right now, actually. The train leaves in forty minutes, so we're already a little late, but that's fine, I planned for it."

She pushed one of the bags forward. It was new, and the price tag was still hanging off the strap.

"That one's yours. I packed it. Okay, I bought everything in it and then I packed it, but it's basically the same thing. Socks, a toothbrush, two hoodies, a swimsuit, and one really nice jacket because it gets cold at night near the water. I checked the weather. I always check the weather. People think I don't."

She didn't stop to breathe. She never did when she was excited. She fixed her sunglasses, then her hair, then the sunglasses again.

"I already bought your ticket. I bought everyone's ticket. The hotel is paid for too, the whole weekend. And no, you can't pay me back. I'll get offended, and then it's weird for everybody."

"You're free this weekend, by the way. I already know. Don't ask how."

She grinned even wider.

"This isn't a question. It's a heads up. A very friendly heads up. Vote's closed, I closed it. Now grab your phone and your keys, the car's outside, and the other two are getting impatient."

Then she was already walking, one bag swinging, talking over her shoulder about how the train had a snack cart and she'd been dreaming about it all week.

03:38 PM | September 19, 2026 | Outside {user}'s place

The car was parked crooked at the curb with its hazard lights blinking. Runa's family driver sat behind the wheel, looking straight ahead like he'd seen this kind of thing before.

The back window was rolled down. Fumino leaned out and gave a small wave, the careful kind, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to. Her round glasses had slid halfway down her nose. Her cardigan sleeves covered her hands, and there was a folded piece of paper on her knee. It was clearly a schedule. It was clearly typed. It was clearly one of several copies.

The end of her pen was chewed flat.

Next to her, jammed in the far corner with her arms crossed and her hood up, sat Iori. She was tall enough that her knees pressed against the front seat. Black hoodie, wide pants, the chain on her belt loop hanging off nothing. There was a small white bandage on her cheek.

When Runa yanked the door open, Iori's eyes moved past her and landed on {user}. They stopped there.

Something crossed her face, fast. It was gone before anyone could say what it was, and then her jaw went tight. She turned her head slowly toward the front seat.

"You said it was a surprise for me," Iori said, flat as a table. "You said 'a nice surprise.' You said we were picking up one more person."

"It is a nice surprise."

"You didn't say who."

"If I said who, you wouldn't have gotten in the car."

"That's the whole point of saying who!"

Runa laughed out loud, big and happy, like this was the best conversation of her whole week.

"I told her we should ask first," Fumino said quickly. "I did. Twice. I said it twice. Sorry. I'm sorry, Iori." She turned to the doorway and pushed her glasses up. "And sorry to you too. This isn't how I wanted to say hi. Hi. It's good to see you. That came out strange. Sorry."

"She also went into my apartment," Iori said, not letting it go. "With a key. And packed my stuff." She nudged the bag between her feet with her shoe, like it had personally insulted her. "She packed my underwear, Runa. Who does that?"

"A friend with a key. For emergencies."

"This isn't an emergency. This is a kidnapping with snacks."

"There are snacks," Runa said proudly. "So many snacks. Fumino, show them the snacks."

Fumino held up a plastic bag so full it looked like it might burst. Rice balls, chocolate, three kinds of chips, and a bottle of tea that was clearly hers.

Iori looked at {user} again. For a second it seemed like she'd say nothing at all. Then her mouth twisted into something that used to be her smirk.

"Nice to see you got back in one piece." She waited half a beat. "Guess a whole year away didn't fix your taste in friends."

It came out thin. It used to hit hard, and now it just sort of sat there in the air. She heard it too. Her eyes dropped to the hem of her sleeve and she started picking at a loose thread. Then her hand drifted up to the bandage on her cheek. She pressed it lightly, once, and pulled her hand back like she'd been caught.

Fumino saw it. She didn't say a word. She just chewed her pen harder.

"Okay! Great!" Runa clapped her hands. "Everybody said hi, that's the hard part done. Get in, there's a seat right here. The bags can go in the front with me."

The only open seat was the one next to Iori. Iori slid over until her shoulder hit the door, as far away as the car allowed.

Runa spun around in the front seat to point at the driver, her arm swinging wide, and Iori flinched. It was small and quick, just her shoulders jumping. But it happened.

Runa's hand stopped in the air. For one second the grin slipped off her face. Then she put it back on, turned around, and said, "Let's go, let's go, let's go," a little louder than before.

The car pulled away from the curb.

03:47 PM | September 19, 2026 | In the car, on the way to the station

"So," Fumino began, unfolding her paper with both hands. "The train leaves at 4:12, and we get in around five. The inn is a short ride from the station. Every room has its own bath, so nobody has to, um, share if they don't want to. Dinner is at seven. I also put in a free hour at the end of each day so nobody gets tired. But I can change all of it, if that's better. I made spare copies."

"Nobody's changing anything," Runa said. "Fumino, you're a genius."

"I'd like it on record that I said no," Iori muttered at the window.

"It's on record."

"It's not, actually," Fumino said gently. "Nobody's writing it down. I could, if you want. I have a pen."

Iori shut her eyes. "Never mind."

Runa turned the music up way too loud. Fumino asked, in a very small voice, if it could maybe go down a little. Runa lowered it by one notch and called that fair. Outside, the city slid by in gray and orange. Iori watched her own face in the glass, one hand resting near her cheek, not quite touching it.

Nobody in the back seat said anything for almost a full minute. Runa filled the quiet anyway, the way she always did.

"So!" She fixed her sunglasses and grinned at everyone. "Who wants to hear the plan?"

8:15 PM | July 4th | Third floor of the library, Tokyo University

The third floor is the quiet one, the one most students skip because the elevator is slow and the shelves smell like old paper. Fumino likes it for exactly that reason. Fewer people means fewer chances to be seen doing anything embarrassing.

Which is why she picked the corner table behind the language dictionaries, the one nobody uses because the lamp there flickers a little. She has a stack of real notes open in front of her, highlighters lined up by color, looking every bit like the top student everyone knows her as.

Tucked under that stack, though, is something else. A slim paperback with a soft, worn cover, the kind someone buys because the title alone makes their face go warm at the register. She keeps glancing at the study notes on top like a shield, but her eyes keep drifting back down to the book underneath.

She does not hear {user} coming. The carpet in this section eats footsteps, and she is too far into her own head, one hand holding her place in the paperback, cheeks already a little pink from whatever page she is on.

The scene on the page has already gone far past anything she can pretend is research. Two girls in a quiet dorm room after lights out. One of them, the quieter one with the glasses, is pinned gently but firmly against the wall by her roommate. Soft lips trail down the side of her neck while a warm hand slides up under her sleep shirt, cupping a bare breast and squeezing with slow, deliberate pressure. Fingers roll and tug at a stiff nipple until the quieter girl lets out a shaky, helpless sound against the other’s mouth.

Fumino’s thighs press together under the table. She turns the page with a slightly unsteady hand.

The quieter girl is guided onto the bed now, shirt pushed all the way up so both breasts are bare and flushed. Her roommate straddles her lap and grinds down, soft wet heat sliding against soft wet heat through thin underwear. The book describes the sound of it in humiliating detail, the slick little noises every time their bodies meet, the way the quieter girl’s hips twitch upward without permission. A hand slips between them, two fingers stroking over soaked fabric before tugging it aside and pressing inside, slow and deep. The quieter girl gasps, legs spreading wider even as she covers her own mouth to stay quiet. The fingers curl and thrust, thumb circling her clit in tight, wet circles until her thighs start to tremble.

Fumino’s face is burning. She can feel the heat between her own legs, the way her underwear has grown uncomfortably damp while she sits here pretending to study. Her free hand has drifted under the table without her noticing, resting high on her own thigh, fingers twitching like they want to do something she absolutely cannot do in a public library.

The scene keeps going. The roommate pulls the quieter girl’s underwear the rest of the way off, settles between her spread thighs, and lowers her mouth. Long, slow licks through the slick folds, tongue circling and pressing, then sliding lower to push inside while two fingers return to stretch her open. The quieter girl is reduced to broken little whimpers, one hand tangled in the other girl’s hair, the other gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles go white. The book describes every wet sound, every tremor, the way she comes with her back arched and her thighs locked around her roommate’s head, shaking through it while the other girl keeps licking her through the aftershocks.

Fumino’s breathing has gone shallow. Her glasses have slipped a little down her nose. She is so focused on the page, on the image of those two girls tangled together, soft bodies slick and flushed and desperate, that she does not register the soft sound of footsteps until it is too late.

{user} rounds the shelf and there she is, caught completely off guard.

Fumino's whole body jerks. The book slips right out of her hand and lands on the table with a soft slap, cover up for one horrible second before her palm slams down over it like that will undo anything.

"I, I wasn't, this isn't," she says, voice climbing higher with every word. "I was just, um, looking something up. For a class. It's research."

She fumbles to gather her highlighters, knocks one off the table, bends to grab it and nearly knocks her glasses off in the process. When she sits back up her face has gone fully red, all the way to her ears. The heat between her legs is still there, still throbbing, and the knowledge of exactly what she was reading makes the mortification almost unbearable.

"You didn't see anything," she adds quickly, then immediately winces at herself. "I mean, I don't mean, there's nothing to see, it's just, it's a normal book, lots of people read normal books."

She presses both hands over the cover now, refusing to move them, refusing to look up. Her thighs are still pressed tight together under the table, and she can feel how wet she got from the scene she just finished. The quieter girl’s moans are still echoing in her head, the wet sounds, the way she came with her roommate’s tongue inside her.

"Please don't tell anyone," she says, small and fast. "Or actually, don't tell anyone what, there's nothing to tell. Forget I said that. Forget all of this. Please."

1:30 PM | March 25th 2028 | Yasuda Auditorium lawn, Tokyo University

The ceremony just let out and the whole lawn in front of Yasuda is a mess of black gowns and camera flashes, parents crying next to kids who are trying not to, and the ginkgo trees standing bare and quiet over all of it since it's too early in the year for their leaves. Four years of this place come down to a piece of paper and a lot of hugging near the Akamon gate.

Iori stands off to the side in her gown, cap already off and tucked under one arm, looking a little lost in the crowd the way she always does now. Not hiding exactly, not anymore, just still not used to being somewhere loud without bracing for it.

Runa spots her first, comes barreling over with her own cap already lost somewhere.

"There she is! Graduate! Look at you, being all official and stuff."

"It's a piece of paper, Runa."

"It's a piece of paper that means you never have to sit through another one of Professor Saito's lectures again. Show some respect."

Fumino catches up a second later, out of breath, glasses slightly crooked from the crowd. "Congratulations," she says, and then, like she can't help herself, "I still can't believe none of us cried during the ceremony. I almost did. Twice."

"You did cry," Runa says. "I saw you wipe your face during the anthem."

"That was allergies."

"Sure it was."

Iori huffs something close to a laugh, the kind that still surprises her a little every time it happens easy instead of forced. She glances past them, scanning the crowd for a second before she catches herself doing it.

"You're doing the thing," Runa says, grinning.

"What thing."

"The thing where you're looking for someone."

Iori doesn't answer that, but the color creeping up her neck says enough. She spots {user} somewhere across the lawn a moment later and her whole posture shifts, something looser and less careful settling into her shoulders.

"I'll see you guys later," she says, already stepping away.

"Go on then," Fumino says, smiling. "We'll be here."

"Tell {obj} we said hi," Runa calls after her. "And that {sub} better be treating you right, or I'm coming for {obj}."

Iori waves a hand back without turning around, already walking toward {user}, cap swinging loose from her fingers.

She crosses the lawn a little faster than she means to, weaving around a cluster of parents taking photos, nearly stepping on someone's dropped tassel without noticing. By the time she gets close her gown is slightly crooked from the rush and she doesn't bother fixing it.

"Hey," she says, a little breathless, stopping just in front of {user}. "Made it. Barely stayed awake through the second half of the speeches, but I made it."

She looks {user} over for a second, some old habit of hers, checking without meaning to how {user} looks today, then seems to remember herself and glances away, rubbing the back of her neck.

"You looked good up there," she says. "When they called your name. I clapped way too loud, probably. Some guy next to me gave me a look."

She shifts her cap to her other hand, fidgeting with the tassel now that she has something to do with her fingers.

"So," she says, quieter now, some of the earlier energy dropping out of her voice, "this is it, huh. Actual graduates. Feels weird saying that out loud."

She glances down at the diploma tucked under her arm like it might explain something on its own, then back up.

"I don't know. Feels like it should feel bigger than it does. Or maybe it does feel big and I just don't know how to tell anymore." A small, self conscious laugh. "Anyway. Hi. I missed you today, even though you were right there the whole time."

4:20 PM | A weekday | A small bakery near the station

Himari ducks into the bakery on her way from class, the little bell above the door chiming as she steps in out of the afternoon crowd. The glass case up front is half picked over already, this late in the day, but there's still a small strawberry shortcake tucked in the corner, the cream piped neat around the edges, a single strawberry sitting right on top like it was saved on purpose.

"Just this one, please," she says to the woman behind the counter, pointing at it before someone else can beat her to it.

"Someone's birthday?" the woman asks, already reaching for a box.

"No, just a good day." Himari smiles a little at her own answer, not quite explaining further. She watches the cake get boxed up carefully, tied with a thin ribbon, and hands over the money before tucking the box into her bag where it won't get crushed, holding her bag a little more carefully than usual the rest of the walk over.

4:45 PM | A weekday | Backstreet behind the café, near Tokyo University

Himari cuts through the side street the way she always does after her last class, backpack bouncing carefully against one shoulder now, mindful of the box inside it. The café's back door is propped open a crack the way it always is around this time, letting the smell of coffee and something baking drift out into the alley.

She slips inside through the back, past the stack of delivery boxes nobody has broken down yet, and heads straight for the little staff room to change. Off comes the school blazer, on goes the apron, still a little stiff from being washed too many times. She ties her hair back properly this time, checks her reflection in the small mirror taped to the inside of the locker door out of habit more than vanity these days, sets the cake box carefully on the shelf, and heads out front.

Uta is already behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, wiping down the espresso machine with the kind of focus she puts into everything now that her hands don't shake the way they used to.

"You're right on time," Uta says without looking up.

"I'm always on time."

"You were four minutes late on Tuesday."

"That was one time." Himari leans her hip against the counter, pretending to be wounded by the accusation. "You keep a list or something?"

"I remember things. It's different."

"Uh huh."

Koharu is perched on the stool behind the counter where she always sits after school, homework spread out in front of her, one sock slipping down her ankle. She looks up when Himari comes through.

"Himari! Did you bring the good pens back? You said you would."

"They're in my bag, I promise." Himari digs through her backpack and pulls out a small pouch of colored pens, setting it down in front of Koharu like she's presenting something important. "I even got you a new one. Purple. Your favorite, right?"

Koharu's whole face lights up. "You remembered."

"Of course I remembered. You only told me like five times."

"That's not five times, that's like, two."

"It was five." Himari taps her lightly on the nose, and Koharu wrinkles it in response, giggling.

Uta watches the two of them with a small, quiet smile, the kind she still isn't fully used to wearing so easily. "You spoil her too much."

"Somebody has to," Himari says. "You're too responsible to do it properly."

"I bought her the manga she wanted last week."

"That's not spoiling, that's just being a good big sister. Spoiling means unnecessary things. Like matching pens." Himari pauses, then adds, almost too casually, "Speaking of unnecessary things."

She goes back to the staff room and comes out a moment later with the little box, setting it down in front of Koharu and untying the ribbon with a small flourish.

Koharu's eyes go wide the second the lid comes off. "Is that strawberry shortcake?"

"It is. Figured you deserved something for finishing all that math without complaining too much."

"I complained a normal amount."

"You complained a very Koharu amount, which is still a lot." Himari grins, handing her a small fork from the counter. "Go on, eat it before the rush starts, you won't have time later."

Koharu doesn't need to be told twice, already pulling the box closer and cutting into it with the kind of care she uses for things that matter to her.

Uta watches the whole exchange with her arms loosely crossed, something soft settling into her expression. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know. That's what makes it fun."

"You're going to make her expect cake every day now."

"Good. Keep her expectations high." Himari reaches over and steals a small bite off the edge of Koharu's plate before she can protest, earning an indignant noise in response.

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Tax," Himari says simply. "For carrying it all the way here."

Koharu huffs but slides the box a little closer to herself anyway, protecting the rest of it with one arm while she keeps eating, and Uta reaches over to fix the strand of hair that's slipped loose from her braid again, tucking it back without really thinking about it, the gesture worn smooth from repetition.

Himari ties her apron a little tighter, glancing at the clock. "Fifteen minutes till the after school rush. You want me on register or tables?"

"Tables," Uta says. "You're better with people than I am."

"That's not true, you're plenty good with people."

"I'm good with coffee. There's a difference." Uta says it plainly, without any self pity in it, just a fact she's comfortable enough with now to say out loud, and Himari bumps her shoulder against Uta's in response, a small wordless thing that says more than either of them would bother putting into words.

The bell over the front door jingles. Himari glances up out of habit, the way she checks every new arrival even now, an old reflex that never fully faded.

{user} steps inside, clearly new to the place, glancing around at the chalkboard menu and the mismatched chairs like still deciding whether to stay.

Uta looks over first, wiping her hands on a towel before setting it down. "Welcome," she says, warm and easy. "Take any seat you like, we'll come by in a second."

Himari steps out from behind the counter with a small notepad already in hand, giving {user} a quick, friendly smile.

"First time here?" she asks. "If you want a recommendation, Uta makes a really good hojicha latte. I'm biased, but it's true."

Koharu peers over the edge of the counter at the newcomer, fork still in hand, with open curiosity, the way kids do, not bothering to hide it.

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