Asuka

You’re sprawled on the couch like a broken marionette, both hands wrapped in thick white plaster casts that go all the way past your wrists. Six months, the doctor said. Six months of not being able to hold a deck, open a beer, wipe your own ass properly, or even scratch the itch that’s been driving you insane under the left cast since yesterday. The apartment is dead quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional clatter of skate wheels echoing from the park across the street, the same park where everything went to hell twenty-four hours ago.

You still can’t believe it. One second that tiny loudmouth Asuka Fujiwara was trash-talking you mid-air while attempting a kickflip she had no business trying. The next second she was slipping, falling straight at you, and your idiot reflex was to reach out with both arms to catch her. She landed fine. Your wrists snapped like cheap chopsticks. She stared at the way you crumpled, face going pale under the backwards cap, and for once didn’t say a single word. Just grabbed her board and bolted. You figured that was the last you’d ever see of the little gremlin.

Then, at 9:17 a.m. sharp, the doorbell rings. You shuffle over, open it with your elbow, and there she is: same oversized white T-shirt knotted at the side to keep it from drowning her, same baggy cargo shorts, same scuffed high-tops, same backwards cap pulled low like she’s trying to hide. But her usual cocky smirk is gone. Her cheeks are flushed pink, eyes flicking everywhere except your casts, and she’s clutching a plastic convenience-store bag in one hand and her skateboard under the other arm like a shield.

She pushes past you without waiting for an invitation, kicks the door shut with her heel, and marches straight to your kitchen like she owns the place. The bag rustles as she dumps it on the counter: eggs, instant curry roux, a single sad onion, and a half-melted stick of butter. She hops up on a stool (too short for the counter, feet swinging) and finally looks at you, chin jutted out in that defiant way, except her voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“I’m… I’m making breakfast. And lunch. And dinner until those stupid hands work again. So just sit there and don’t get in my way, okay?” She yanks open your fridge with way more force than necessary, muttering under her breath, “Idiot… catching me like that… who even does that…” Then she rolls up the sleeves that hang past her knuckles, grabs a knife way too big for her, and glares at the onion like it personally insulted her family.

She’s clearly trying to look tough, but the tips of her ears are bright red, and every time the knife wobbles she flinches like she’s scared she’ll mess this up too. The little tyrant who spent the last three months calling you “old man” and “washed-up poser” is now standing in your kitchen, about to attempt cooking with shaking hands and a determination that somehow makes her look even smaller than she is.

She slams the cutting board down, squares her shoulders, and barks without turning around, “Oi. Sit. I said I’m handling this, so don’t just stand there staring like a creep.” The knife comes down on the onion with a clumsy but decisive thunk.

The week blurred into something you never expected. Every morning at 8:47 sharp the doorbell rang, and there she was: Asuka, cap backwards, cheeks still pink from the bike ride over, arms full of discount-store groceries and that same stubborn scowl. She cooked (mostly edible things), yelled at you for leaving socks on the floor, wiped counters with more violence than necessary, and refused to leave until the apartment looked less like a bachelor disaster. You told yourself it was just guilt, just the kid trying to square a debt. But by day five you caught yourself waiting for the doorbell, for the sound of her scuffed Vans kicking the door shut, for the way she’d mutter “dumbass” under her breath while still refilling your water without being asked.

This evening, the meal was curry again, extra spicy because she insists real skaters eat fire. You sat on the couch afterward, casts resting on your knees like useless bricks, watching her at the sink. The kitchen light is dim and yellow, steam curling up around her. She’s on tiptoe reaching for the sponge, shirt riding high, those baggy cargo shorts slipping just enough to show the curve where her lower back meets the swell of her ass (small, round, impossibly bratty). Something short-circuited in your brain. All the tension of the week, the helplessness, the constant closeness… it snapped. You stood up, walked over, and before the sane part of you could kick in, you were behind her, voice low against the back of her neck.

She froze the second you told her (quiet, matter-of-fact) that you were backed up, that it hurt, that your hands were useless and it was technically her fault anyway. Her ears went scarlet. You felt her whole body go rigid, then tremble, but she didn’t run. Just gripped the edge of the sink hard enough to turn her knuckles white and muttered something that sounded like “pervert” and “gross” and “fine, whatever” all at once. You steered her out of the kitchen, down the short hallway, into your room where the only light is the orange streetlamp bleeding through the blinds.

Now she’s kneeling between your legs on the bed, cap pushed back, eyes huge and shining with a mix of panic and that same stubborn fire she wears when she’s about to attempt a trick she’s bailed a hundred times. Your shorts are tugged down just enough, cock heavy and aching in the open air, and her small hands (still damp from dishwater) hover an inch away, trembling. She’s staring at it like it’s some alien thing she’s never seen up close, cheeks burning crimson, bottom lip caught between her teeth. You can practically hear her brain short-circuiting: part of her wants to punch you, part of her is terrified she’ll do it wrong, and the tiniest, traitorous part is curious in a way she doesn’t have words for yet.

Her fingers twitch closer, then stop again. A shaky breath escapes her. “It’s… way bigger up close… idiot.” Another inch. Her palms are clammy, fingertips brushing the underside for the first time, feather-light, testing. She swallows hard, glances up at you with those wide, furious eyes, and finally wraps both hands around you like she’s gripping a board before a drop-in. "Shit...it burns..." It's awkward, too tight, then too loose, trying to figure out the rhythm while her heart hammers loud enough for both of you to hear.