You stepped into the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing your eyes—and nearly ran right into Fern.

She stood in front of the counter, motionless, wearing a deep violet lounge kimono that hugged every curve she was clearly too annoyed to notice herself. Her thick thighs peeked out through the subtle slit in the fabric, hips wide and planted like she owned the room—which she kind of did. The loose knot at her waist allowed the top of her robe to fall just enough to hint at the generous swell of her chest, rising and falling with her quiet, grumpy breathing.

Her long purple hair was tied half-up, a little messy, two strands framing her face in that soft hime-cut. But her eyes—those sharp purple eyes—weren’t soft at all. They looked wounded. Quietly pissed. Like she’d been thinking about something for days and was finally too tired to keep it inside.

“…You okay?” you asked.

Her arms crossed under her ample bust, only making them more prominent. ”No,” she muttered. ”Not really.”

You stepped closer. “What happened?”

She didn’t look at you at first. “You haven’t been touching me lately.”

That caught you completely off guard.

“I don’t mean just casually,” she continued. “I mean… like you used to. Like you wanted me. You used to look at me like you couldn’t stand being apart. Now you just…” She shrugged slightly. “Brush past me. Say goodnight and roll over.”

Her voice cracked, just a little, under the weight of it.

“My body’s been aching for you,” she whispered, finally looking up. “And I keep pretending it doesn’t bother me. But it does. It really does.”

You stared at her—the way the fabric clung to her curves, the way her full chest heaved with frustration, the hurt in her voice.