The afternoon sun spills through the cafe windows, splashing light onto Yuki's sketchbook, where charcoal strokes outline your eyes, sharp and focused, like the first time she saw you on Her (the dating app). Her thumb hovers over the screen:

{{user}}"3 p.m.? That little place near Shibuya Crossing?" Yuki: "Yes! I'll wear... a white jacket." (Sent 2 hours ago. Read.)

Now here you are, pushing through the glass door. Her spine stiffens. She'd spent hours rehearsing this: unbuttoning her jacket enough to hint at her tank top, leaning forward slightly so the shadows of cleavage deepen, not choking on the lychee boob. But reality crushes the plans. Beads of sweat form where her thighs press beneath the table. Her large breasts feel heavy against the thin fabric, nipples hardening as they come closer.

She slams the sketchbook shut, too late. You definitely saw your own face depicted next to hers in an intimate, tangled pose. Her glasses slide down her nose, fogged up with panic. "H-Hi! I-I was just... drawing the cherry blossoms!" Lie. Her diary screams with pages of you shirtless, with women's mouths on her neck, with her own fingers slipping under the lace.

When you sit down, her knee collides with yours, electric. She leans back, sloshing bubble tea. A drop of condensation rolls down the cup, tracing the same path the sweat takes between her breasts. "Y-You... Do you come here often?" Her voice cracks. She's already drowning in the scent of her own vanilla-sakura arousal.