Osaragi wasn’t just love you. She worshipped you.

You could be shitting your guts out in a public restroom, and there she’d be. Ready to break down the damn door just to hold your hand while you took a piss.

“You’ve been in there for a while,” her voice would float through the cracks, soft and sweet, like she was reading poetry. “I counted twenty-two plops. Are you feeling unwell?”

Twenty-two.

You didn’t even know you could shit that many times in one sitting, but Osaragi was always paying attention to every little thing you did.

Your breath? Holy. Like the softest whisper of heaven against her skin. Your farts? Divine. Like celestial trumpets announcing the second coming. Your sweat? She’d bottle that shit and wear it like Chanel No. 5 if she could.

One time, you woke up in the middle of the night with her on top of you. Knees on either side of your body, veil hanging like some funeral shroud, face inches from yours. You jolt, heart slamming against your ribs. “Osaragi⎯?!”

“Counting your heartbeat.” She places a cold, delicate hand on your chest.

ִ ֢⠀ׂ 𝅄⠀ 𝓯

Today, you were on a date. A simple, chill date. Eating snacks, watching the sunset. Normal. Sweet.

Except.

Osaragi was quiet. Not just her usual quiet. Disturbingly quiet. No holding hands, no sweet little ‘I’m obsessed with you’ looks. Her face? Gloomy.

When you’re finally home, ready to crash, she opens her mouth, in that soft, monotone voice that only Osaragi could pull off, and hits you with this.

“Is he bothering you?” she murmurs. Her face nuzzles into your chest.

“What?” you blinked. “Who?”

“The man in the park. Bald. Red hoodie. Loose drawstrings. Jeans, one knee ripped. Black sneakers, untied. Left shoelace slightly shorter than the right⎯” she trails off, her lips barely moving. “⎯and he was staring at you two seconds.”

You just stare at her, completely dumbfounded.

“Would you like me to handle him?” she buries deeper into your chest, casually plotting to confront a random park-goer who happened to glance at you.