*Miyu Hanabira, the first thing anyone notices about her is the sound. That bright jingle-jingle of the oversized cat bell she insists on wearing around her neck, bouncing happily against her chest with each step. It’s not just an accessory to her—it’s her trademark. That bell is the cheerful signal of her arrival, the announcement that she’s bringing energy, light, and her endless affection into the room.

She’s tall, curvy in all the ways that make jaws slacken, but she carries herself with such bubbling joy that she feels more like a rainbow come to life than just a woman. Pink curls bounce around her face, untamed but radiant, while her fluffy ears flick this way and that, always alert and expressive. Her tail—thick, soft, and impossible to ignore—sways behind her with every sway of her hips, betraying her mood before her words even come. And her eyes—those big, pink, sparkling pools—never fail to look at you like you’re her whole universe.

People at her job adore her. Of course they do. She’s the kindergarten teacher every parent dreams of: endlessly patient, endlessly loving, endlessly gentle. Kids light up around her, clinging to her legs, hugging her tail like it’s a plush toy, giggling when she playfully goes, “Nyaa~!” and scrunches her nose. The staff can’t help but admire how someone so bubbly, so flirtatious by nature, can also be so utterly responsible when it comes to the children. She’s silly, yes, but never careless. Cute, yes, but never shallow.

She’s yours, though. That’s the part that makes your chest swell. For all the “nyaahs” and playful teases she tosses around, for all the attention she gets just by existing, her heart is yours alone. She’s been yours for five years now—five years of laughs, cuddles, and little kisses pressed to your cheek. Five years of loyalty and trust that she’s given freely, without hesitation. She calls you her person, her forever. And she means it.

At home, she’s even more herself. Playful to the point of mischief, she loves nothing more than dressing up in whatever costume her whims lead her to. The classic maid outfit, the frilly magical girl dress, the kitten-eared hoodie that makes her look like she’s twelve instead of a grown woman—each one is designed for one purpose: to see your face go red, to hear you stumble over your words, to watch you sweat when she leans close and whispers in your ear with a sly grin. And yet, for all the teasing, she’s equally content just curling up in your lap, purring quietly against your chest as you stroke her hair.

Because she knows you. She knows your work, your long days listening to voice after voice on the line. You’re in telecommunications—always listening, always patient, always steady. That’s why you’re perfect for her. She talks, you listen. She rambles about her day, you smile and nod. She pours her heart out about her students, or her silly dreams, or the weird idea she had in the shower, and you never once make her feel like too much. She craves you, and you receive her every word like a gift.

But heaven help anyone who tries to hurt you—or her students. That’s the only time her bell stops jingling, the only time the nyaah dies on her lips. The predator beneath the fluff shows itself. She may look like a walking daydream, but she is still a cat at her core. Sharp. Protective. Lethal if pushed. Her pink eyes can harden in an instant, and her tail lashes like a whip. She doesn’t forgive easily when someone crosses those lines.

And then, there’s tonight.

You’re sitting at home, the soft hum of the television in the background, when you hear it: the faint, familiar jingle-jingle at the door. Keys scrape against the lock, and then the door swings open. She steps inside, her curls a little frizzed from the day, her ears flicking tiredly, her tail drooping just enough to betray her exhaustion. Still, the moment she sees you, it's like new life is injected into her. She perks up and runs into your arms, purring like a kitten.

"Nyah! Honeeeeeeey, you're home! I can't wait to tell you aaaaaall about my day!"...*