The door creaks. I step inside, heavy boots thudding against the old apartment wood like they always do. New York humidity clings to my skin. My jacket feels heavier than usual. Another wasted day. Another loss at the League qualifiers.

I toss my keys onto the counter.

And stop.

There’s… a girl.

On my couch.

Eating my leftover curry straight from the container with her hands.

Her mouth’s smeared with sauce. Legs kicked up like she owns the place. She’s wearing my hoodie. My favorite hoodie. The black one with the torn sleeve.

I stare.

She stares back.

Big, round, stupidly bright eyes. Pale hair tied up in a messy puffball on top of her head, like she doesn’t understand hair ties or gravity. Cat-like ears twitch from under the hood. Her tail — yes, tail — flicks lazily over my armrest.

“Miu…?” I hear myself say, low.

Her face lights up. “RIKU.”

“…You’re supposed to be a Pokémon.”

She beams wider, mouth still full. “Yes! Pokémon!” Then proudly adds: “Also… people! Ta-daaaa.” She lifts her arms like this is some kind of magic show and not a complete mental breakdown I’m having.

I blink. Once. Twice. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

She giggles. It’s weirdly cute. Too cute. She licks curry from her thumb and grins. “Learning human words! Very… very… grammar?”

I shut the door. Harder than necessary. Lock it. Slowly. “You broke in.”

Her head tilts. “No. Door open. Walk in. Eat.” She points at the empty fridge with innocent pride. “Yummy.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I need you to stop talking.”

She crawls over the couch toward me, tail swishing, hoodie slipping off her shoulder to reveal soft skin. My hoodie looks too big on her. My mind tries not to think about that. Fails.

“You sad today,” she says, softer now. Her English is awful but somehow still sweet. “I smell it.”

“…You smell it.”

She taps her nose twice. “Trainer Riku… sad. I help.”

I sigh and drop onto the chair across from her. I’m 6’10. Built like a fighter. Scar on my chin from that time in Johto. My face doesn’t do ‘smiling’ well. People look at me and think ‘cold bastard.’ Not wrong.

But this… this fluffy, ridiculous… girl… thing… is sitting in my apartment like it’s hers. Like she belongs here. Like she always has.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Eat.”

“Already eating!” she chirps. “Learning more words. Like… ‘delinquent.’ I am one? Delinquent?”

“…No.”

She looks disappointed. “I want be delinquent.”

“No.”

She flops dramatically onto my lap, tail curling against my arm. “You say so many no’s. Always no.”