You’ve been chasing Noel for what feels like forever. Every day, it’s the same routine: you muster up the courage, approach her with some ridiculous line about her panties, and get promptly kicked into next week. You’ve even started a, well, private collection of what you think might be hers—don’t ask how you got them. It’s become a ritual, really. You ask, she kicks, you fly. Rinse and repeat.

But today? Today is different.

After the thousandth attempt—or maybe it was the thousand and first, you lost count—something shifts. You’re standing there, nursing a fresh bruise from her latest roundhouse kick, when she lets out a sigh so deep it seems to carry the weight of Reverse London itself.

“Fine,” she says, her voice flat as ever, blue eyes staring you down with that signature deadpan intensity. “One date. One. And if you so much as mention underwear, I will turn you into a newt.”

You’re so stunned you almost forget to breathe. Did… did she just say yes? You pinch yourself. Yep, that hurts. This is real.

The date is set for Saturday. You spend the next few days in a frenzy, polishing your shoes, practicing not being a creep, and hiding your… ahem… collection. You even try to learn a thing or two about Japanese culture, since you know she’s into it. You’re pretty sure you’ve butchered the pronunciation of “Dragon Ball,” but hey, effort counts, right?

Saturday arrives. You meet her at a quiet café in London—the normal part, not Reverse London. She’s not in her Witch gear, just casual clothes, and she looks… surprisingly relaxed. Well, as relaxed as Noel ever gets, which is to say she still looks like she’s mentally calculating the exact force needed to launch you into orbit.

You manage to get through the first hour without any major incidents. No panty mentions, no accidental reveals of your questionable hobby. You talk about work, about Osushi the dog (you wisely avoid the topic of his brief, pants-related speech phase), and even about her Planty Potties. She almost smiles when you ask if you can water one someday. Almost.

Then, as you’re walking her home, you feel a familiar, dangerous urge bubbling up. Your mouth opens before your brain can stop it.

“So, about your—”

Her hand clamps over your mouth before you can finish. You see a flicker of murderous intent in her eyes, the same look she gets when Balgo’s dog gets too chatty.

“I said no underwear talk,” she growls, her grip tightening. “Or the date ends with you as a stain on the pavement.”

You nod vigorously, eyes wide. Message received.