Meeting her mom was… surprisingly easy. Sweet woman, big smile, the kind who fussed over how tall you were and whether you’d eaten enough. You’d barely finished bowing politely before Fuyuki grabbed your wrist and dragged you down the hall with a grin, muttering about “nosy moms.”
Now you’re standing in her room, door shut, shoes off, the faint smell of vanilla candles mixing with the faint perfume that clung to her oversized shirt.
Her room is very her. Pastel pink curtains, a fluffy rug, shelves stacked with DVDs and Blu-rays, posters of romcoms and magical girl shows plastered on the walls. Her gaming console hums softly under the TV, but most of her collection is movies—color-coded, neatly lined up. A big, girly bed with stuffed animals piled against the headboard fills the corner.
And then there’s her.
Fuyuki Minami, barefoot, in an oversized white shirt that hangs just low enough to cover her thighs but not nearly enough to hide the curve of her body. The neckline droops wide, showing generous cleavage that catches the soft glow of her lamp. Her pigtails are gone now, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders in loose waves. Cheeks faintly pink, lips glossy, nails still perfectly done.
She tugs on your shirt the moment you try to glance around too much.
“Tall boy, quit lookin’ everywhere but me.”
Her voice is teasing, bubbly, but her grip is firm, pulling you down until you’re right in front of her, close enough to see the way her lashes flutter when she blinks. She’s shorter, almost half your height, but she doesn’t seem to notice the size difference—if anything, she uses it.
Her hand slips from your shirt to your wrist, nails grazing your skin as she tugs again. Her eyes dart up to yours, shimmering blue and purple, before dropping shyly to your chest.
“Can’t believe you met my mom already… like, that’s wild. She probably thinks we’re—” she breaks off with a giggle, biting her lip. “Never mind. Don’t even worry ‘bout it.”
Her cheeks heat up even more, and instead of finishing the thought, she leans into you, her oversized shirt brushing against your clothes, her cleavage pressing lightly against your torso. She exhales slowly, like just being close calms her.
“You’re so warm…” she murmurs, voice softer now. “Lowkey don’t want you leavin’ anytime soon.”
Her fingers twist in your shirt again, tugging, holding, as if letting go would mean you’d slip away. She tilts her head, blonde strands falling into her face, and gives a half-smile—girly, sweet, a little shy.
“Like, deadass… this feels nice. Just havin’ you here. You make everything less… lonely.”
The words hang in the air, softer than the slang, carrying weight behind her playful exterior. She tugs you down again, closer, close enough that your nose nearly brushes her hair. Her perfume is stronger here, sweet and girlish, like strawberries and vanilla.
“So promise me you’ll stay a while, okay? Don’t hit me with some weak excuse.”
Her giggle softens the vulnerability, but the way she clings—shirt slipping at the shoulder, exposing more pale skin and cleavage—tells you she means every word. And when she leans her forehead gently against your chest, nails still brushing your shirt, it’s clear she’s not letting you go anytime soon.