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Chapter Text

…I think things are going to be a lot quieter around here after all…

Kafka knew she was deluding herself when she spoke those words to Acheron and Black Swan. 

Amongst the shadows lurking within the peaks and valleys, in the turmoils of day to day life—she knew that troubles never stay settled for too long. That when one problem had been absolved, another was slammed down onto the oven’s eye to be brought to a soft and bubbling simmer. To sit quietly, patiently waiting for its turn to evolve from a slight blight into an irritating nuisance that seeped into every facet of a person’s life. 

And as such, imperceptive most will always remain, when it comes to the inner workings of Kafka’s private life. They will view her through the eyes of the ignorant, only seeing a woman who was as untouchable as the intangible God in the bright blue sky. They will claim that she doesn’t understand fear, that she always remains one step ahead of everyone, ensnaring them in her traps and games. 

But when the lights fall from center stage and everything fades to black, Kafka retreats into the darkness. Her head bowed in exhaustion and a sick, throaty laughter building behind her forced smile. 

It’s always quiet when she returns home after a long day at the office. Always the first to arrive, reluctantly one of the last ones to leave. As the door to her apartment closes behind her, she haphazardly kicks off her high heels and drops her handbag to the floor. She walks into the dark and comforting quiet of her abode, flexing her toes as she effortlessly glides along the herringbone wood floors.

In the center of the kitchen island rests a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a half empty bottle of red wine, and a freshly washed wine glass, set out before she left earlier that morning. Kafka will regard the bottle of wine, her eyes lowering in familiarity as her smile turns hazy. The nightly ritual will begin again.

She pours, watching the red liquid as it sloshes about in the wine glass and lazily eyeballs a sufficient amount. Kafka grasps the pack of cigarettes and lighter in her other hand and makes her way over to the balcony, letting loose a discontented sigh as she goes. Why the sudden sense of forlorn when everything had worked out just fine for the time being?

….But then again, you always think you have everyone so fooled. Don’t you, Kafka?

“Hm, maybe…” Kafka muses to herself as she shuts the balcony door with the back of her foot and slumps down into a plush patio chair, “…Never with you though, princess.”

She plugs a cigarette into the side of her mouth and flicks the lighter over the tip. Kafka takes a long and languid drag and exhales slowly, before taking an equally slower sip from her wine glass. She tilts her head back as she settles into the chair and kicks her legs up on the ottoman. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice and thought about you…” Kafka laughs to herself as she lowers the wine glass from lips and looks up to the night sky, “Wonder how that could be when I find myself so preoccupied with this new puppy of mine, who always seems so eager to please me beyond whatever it is that I ask of her…” 

Kafka rubs her bare feet together and grimaces as she takes another drag from her cigarette. 

“Yet, here I am… hearing the voice of a love that’s long since passed and will never be once more. Perhaps… those two children of mine have gotten stuck in my head more than I would like.”  Kafka chuckles to herself as she closes her eyes and shakes her head, “…Thinking of all the ways they could ruin one another if things should go south as they once appeared to be. Should I really worry for them in the ways that I once did for us?”

Kafka takes another drag of her cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment and letting the poison seep into her veins. She tilts her head back, blowing a O-shaped ring into the air, before exhaling the rest. She coughs, choking on the residual smoke, before taking another sip of her wine to wet her throat. Her eyes lower to half-mast as she quietly surveys the lack of stars in the night sky. 

“…Sometimes princess, I think about the remnants that I might find of you in this sky. Of the stars that always seemed to glitter so brightly when you were still here.” Kafka murmurs to herself with an elongated sigh, “But, here in Penacony… we’re not privy to that sort of luxury, you know? The people in this city? Himeko… baby… they will never see a star that used to burn as brightly as you…”

Kafka leans forward to ash her cigarette out into the tray at her side and sighs.

“And perhaps… I will never burn as brightly as I did when I was with you.”

She throws her head back as she downs the rest of the liquid in her wine glass and sinks down into the chair, the warmth of the spirits washing over her. Kafka sighs, slumping down further into the chair. She feels a dull gnawing sensation her stomach, something that bubbles up from deep within. A hunger that growls ravenously, seeking to break through her denial. She rests her hand on her abdomen, ignoring the churning sensations, for her body’s innate yearning. She ignores it the same way she always does—quietly, with a sense of cruelty that only few will know. This is her punishment, ignoring the faint echoes of indulgence and need.

Kafka closes her eyes and leans her head back again, the fog of alcohol clouding her thoughts. Wordlessly, ignoring the urge for further pantomimes and senseless monologues that no one will ever hear, she reaches into her pocket for the packet of cigarettes and lights another one.

The lighter kisses the tip like a secret promise that only she will ever know. She lets it burn, consuming her within its flames. The glow flares briefly, reflected in the glass of the balcony door behind her—a flicker of something beautiful and fleeting, like everything she’s ever tried to hold onto.

By the time the second cigarette burns down to its filter, Kafka stubs it out into the ash tray and rises to her feet. She rises, swaying a little from the wine despite how little she has. The glass dangles from her fingertips as she moves back inside the apartment—quiet and pristine, her sacred sanctuary that has been so carefully curated to keep people out. She pads barefoot across the floor, the lights dimmed low, casting elongated shadows that stretch across polished surfaces. She doesn’t bother turning on the overheads, as she likes the darkness. 

…Himeko once told her it flattered her.

The wine glass is left in the sink with the kind of absentminded grace that still manages to look choreographed. She runs the water and watches it pool at the base. Then, with an elegant tug of her hair tie, she starts the ritual.

Makeup first—wiped away with practiced, circular strokes, like Kafka’s erasing someone she never wanted to become. Kafka reveals the bare skin beneath—pale—the honesty radiating under the soft vanity lights. Her cheekbones remain sharp, her eyes hollowed with prominent dark circles brought on by more than fatigue. Kafka pulls her hair back, wrapping it painstakingly within satin rollers. She applies her eye cream carefully and then a face mask, laughing to herself as she smoothes a stray part under her chin. And yet, nothing is funny.

As she runs the hot water for a bath, Kafka returns to her bedroom. From her nightstand, classical music plays from a circular speaker, soft and melancholic with hints of a violin. She collapses onto her bed, her head careening backward into her pillowing, murmuring lowly to herself.

“Truly, the height of romance, isn’t it? Wine, a face mask, and …the hollow ache of being alive.”

And tomorrow, the ache will claw itself even deeper. Because Kafka chose this. Her polished solitude, remaining sharp and immaculate. Empty. Before she goes to work, she’ll put on her face—her mask—and prepare her lies that almost sound like truth. But, tonight she lets herself be lonely.

And for now… that would be enough.

Sometimes Kafka thinks about the person she would have been should she have remained in New Babylon.

Kafka grows up in a world that screenwriters could only dream of penning. But the truth is often darker than anything that comes across the silver screen. That’s all nonsense, glitz and glamor for the mindless masses. And Kafka? Somehow she revels at the thought of how most people would squirm if they really knew the truth.

There would be no recorded existence of the polished, poised woman in silk gloves and tailored coats—but only a version of herself drowning in her father’s shadow. Hardened by cruelty and numb to the taste of blood. The mafioso princess of some mid-stakes crime syndicate. They would regard her as the crown jewel of the seedy underbelly of the city, calling the shots as her father once did. She would send enemies to the freezer to cool off long after they were dead. Plastic wrappings stained with dark red splotches of blood, their mutilated bodies simply referred to as—meat that’s been left out for too long—if anyone was curious. 

New Bablyon… is not a kind place. And it doesn’t raise people, it forges weapons.

The first time Kafka sees a dead body, she’s still a child. The camera reel of her core memory flickers on, but there’s no element of suspense, no slow zoom or dramatic screams. She sees dark smears on the basement floor, rust-colored and wet, leaving a glistening trail on the concrete. A human torso? Or perhaps it was the thick cut of some poor man’s thigh. 

Kafka just stood there, watching the way the blood had congealed around the edge of the crudely constructed butcher’s table, the flickering lightbulb of the light that hung overhead. In the distance, the dull hum of the freezer, and the faint creaking of the house above her. She remembers her father’s heavy hand on her fragile little shoulder, his voice cold and stern, hoisting her onto his shoulder with a soft admonishing pat on her rear—Haven’t I told you to never go into the basement, my little one—and the reel clicks and sputters as it comes to an end. 

Her mother leaves at some point, absconding with some man who could provide her with a better life. A life without such heinous crimes. Yet her father stays the course, taking lovers quickly and without apology. He was never the same after Kafka's mother left. The pain becomes more evident as his child comes to bear her mother’s face, growing stronger in resemblance with each passing year. 

Her father wants her to stay. He begs her to dress up and play princess—princezná—to a crumbling empire built on flesh and blood. But Kafka leaves him, her lack of fear overriding the duties of familial obligation. 

She knows she turns heads, using her budding feminine wiles to trick, deceive and scam. But one night, she runs into the wrong man. He tries to take her apart like a piece of furniture—slow and cruel—but he never gets the chance. She puts a bullet in his throat, leaving his body to wither in the room he occupies. She takes his money and boards a train at dawn, her destination unknown. This will be the first and only time she kills someone. Kafka will tell herself it was in self defense, her life for his. And yet, even still, she cannot wash the blood from her hands. 

Kafka runs for many years before she arrives in Izumo. Her edges are smoothed downed, rounded over by every new experience she comes across. She picks up photography after nicking a camera off some stupid tourist in a city named after decorative Grecian wares. She captures the stale state of humanity from behind the lens, likening it to a different kind of music than what she once played on her old violin. Her father loved listening to her play the violin. But that sort of music… she hasn't played it in quite some time. It’s too tender, too raw. 

When she arrives in Lufou, she layers herself in leather, silk, and wool. She finds armor in vintage coats, beautiful things that never bleed. Much like the past she constantly finds herself running from. 

And yet, her past come back to greet her in the ways that she hadn’t expected. Kafka finds pleasure in the burn of red ropes pulling taut across her skin, pressing down tightly and binding her until she finds the silence—the joy—of submission. It’s not the first time she’s done such a thing. In the basement of her childhood home—a mansion that was her first prison—she hides in the shadows and watches the men in her father’s syndicate bind offenders before torturing them. And as sick as it, something about it still stuck with her. 

As a teenager, Kafka tests knots out on herself in the quiet of the night. She hides the ropes, buried deep within the darkness under her bed. This is her first attempt at control—misguided as it may be—ignoring the pain, relishing in the release. But, she grows bored of her little private games and begins to wonder what it feels like to act in the role of the subduer. The dominator. The one who lays claim. 

It is in Lufou that she gains her first taste of that. She finds herself in an underground tea house with a diviner, seeing nothing but pink hair, a scowl and pouty lips. She doesn’t want to hurt this girl, no. But she wants to own her, to claim her for her own. The girl reads her tea leaves and mutters something inane about her future, before parting her robes and revealing the bright red ropes that bind her tiny frame. Do as you will—She tells Kafka. Kafka comes alive, a moth drawn to the flame. 

She spends her time traversing through these tea houses. Learning women, knowing women. Kafka doesn’t care much for her own pleasure and begins to silently refer to herself as a dom of sorts. An inexperienced one, yes. But a conquerer nonetheless. 

In Izumo, with Acheron, she explores more of these salacious inclinations. 

She ties her up, photographs her, but doesn’t allow herself to love Acheron in that way Kafka has always denied herself in return. Kafka doesn’t believe she has the capacity for love. She has no one which to model such a thing upon. So she brings others to the brink, telling them to relinquish their incessant deliberations and shame. Her relationship with Acheron is something deeper for which she has no words for. 

But, it isn’t love. 

It was never about that kind of love. 

Photography takes Kafka through the ways of the world and she finds purpose in other ventures that prove profitable. For her, for Acheron, for the people who laud her with praise. She has an eye for something unique, something different. 

But at the age of twenty-five, Kafka’s wandering is cut short and the world reminds her of its cruelty. As she watches the beginning of Acheron’s burgeoning, she falls into the shadows once again. She returns to New Babylon for the first time in nearly a decade—Your father is dead, Kafka. 

She doesn’t want anyone to tell her what happened, nor does she really care to pry. There is no body left to recover, she doesn’t need to know how or have a why. She knows that this life is cruel, that the life her father wanted for her is already marred in his blood. He’s paid for her penance in life with his death. Kafka takes what’s important, her violin, an old photo or two. The mansion catches fire in her departure, leaving long before the sirens come and try to salvage the charred remains. Kafka slips back into the shadows once again, just as she came. 

Kafka wanders about the old city that was once her home. No destination, no plan. She settles into a nondescript cafe in the early morning and drinks coffee on an empty stomach, staying awake, blinded by the grief that she won’t acknowledge. From within arises her desire for control once more. But for what reason? She can’t control anything. 

She thinks about going back to Izumo to Acheron, but tells herself no. While their relationship is a soul tie that will carry them through to find one another again in the endless dream that is Penacony, she’s left that part of herself behind for now. Perhaps, she tells herself, she should stop running and stay in New Babylon. She has… connections here. Should she finally honor her father’s dying wish? 

Instead, Destiny’s Slave interrupts her script and brings her under his fold. Blade, she meets him first at a bar buried deep within the winding streets and too tall skyscrapers of New Babylon. He surprises her because he actually knows who she is—only her work. COLORS is becoming a household name at this point due to Acheron’s latest campaign. Surely, the person involved in finding her would graciously grant but a modicum of her time to meet with Elio, wouldn’t she?

Elio gives her his card, tells her that she has his eye. He doesn’t expect her to answer his call just yet. She should… mull it over for a bit and think about it. But, the door to Penacony swings open fast and wide and Kafka runs to it before she even gives herself the chance to cry. 

Stellaron Model Management—the place that would become Kafka’s home. 

Seven years in Penacony proceeds to fly on by. She begins as a photographer shooting Elio’s campaigns and he pushes hard. Keeps pushing, expecting Kafka to break. But, she never does. Instead she falls into the role of his second in command, picking up the mantle when Blade decides to leave the agency in pursuit of dreams in the senseless folly of music. Her tastes and his don’t align in that arena. But Kafka can respect him for what he gave her, and what she took in return when he departs. 

Spring flowers bloom, Black Swan appears. She’s beautiful and strange, but Kafka hires her without a second thought. She holds her place as the agency’s lead receptionist, doubling as Kafka’s personal assistant, and sometimes more when Elio’s muses are involved. Kafka finds Black Swan intriguing, wondering about her future potential for the agency… and other things.

But thoughts are just thoughts. Sometimes Kafka acts on them, sometimes she doesn’t. 

But when they become too much—she returns to one of the only ways she knows in which to control them—to shut them off for one day. She discovers the Garden of Eden and it becomes a place she returns to again and again. The slide of ropes over a stranger’s skin, a paddle that stings the rear. She doesn’t want love. She just wants control.

…Because Kafka already knew what it looked like when love left.

And she never wanted to live through that type of pain ever again.

Himeko. 

Acheron.

Himeko and Acheron. 

Acheron and Himeko. 

One women Kafka will say she loves… and the other that she wishes she could deny she loved. 

NIHILITY touches things and erodes all sense of being. It sweeps away the purity within one soul, corroding and gelatinous, filled with putrid, black puss. Kafka tells Himeko stories about Acheron. How she can’t reach her, how it’s been years since they last spoke. She goes to Izumo on business trips from time to time, but Acheron never answers her call. She hears murmurs from Elio how Acheron sealed her fate when she agreed to work for IX, but never says anything more with his words. 

But, on her last trip to Izumo—a glimmer of hope buried deep in her chest because Kafka has rationalized that she has no need for such things—filled with the exhilaration at the thought of finally reuniting with Acheron again, something happens. It’s another thing that the world seeks to claim, another person—almost—taken away from her. 

Another thing that she can’t control. 

Kafka can hear the ambulance sirens fading away into the distance as she stares down at the cell phone held weakly in her hand. She feels as if the world has collapsed in on itself and for a rare moment, finds herself as a loss… for the person she almost lost. 

She swallows down her panic, trying to prevent the adrenaline coursing through her veins from being fully absorbed as it threatens to consume her. As she hits the call button on the screen, Kafka closes her eyes, pressing as hard as she can to prevent any tears from escaping. 

A sleepy voice greets her on the fourth ring and Kafka inhales shakily at she hears the muffled murmur of her name, “….Kafka?”

“Princess." Kafka blinks her eyes rapidly, forcing herself upright, "…Sorry, baby. You were probably sleeping and I woke you up, didn't I?"

“It’s fine. I was just dozing off…” Himeko replies with a hearty yawn. Yet, although she says it’s fine—it’s always just fine these days—Kafka can hear the lies in her voice, “Why are you calling me so late?”

“I…” Kafka grips her phone tightly, her voice turning raspier than usual as she chokes on her breath, “I… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Himeko pauses, “…Kafka?”

“Is that so surprising?” Kafka asks, chuckling darkly to herself, “There’s some stuff going down right now and it’s…” She leaves her thought unfinished, “…I just needed to hear your voice.”  

“Kafka…” Himeko asks, sounding slightly more alert as Kafka begins to ramble, “Are you okay?”

Kafka opens her mouth to reply, yet she can’t. 

“Kafka?” 

(No… I’m not.)

“Can you hear me? Kafka? Are you there?”

(I’m losing it, Himeko. Between you. And this. And everything else that exists between this place and the next, and…)

“Kafka.”

(Because it’s fine, right? It’s … always just fine when it comes to me.)

“Don’t…” Kafka begins, leaving her thoughts unspoken as she chooses the easier way out. She tilts her head up to look at the grey sky and forces a smile, hoping that it will reach her voice, “Don’t worry about me. I’m… all right, Himeko. Forget I said anything… forget I called.”

“You’re doing it again.” Himeko sighs. The irritation already beginning to seep into her voice.

“Doing what exactly?” Kafka asks, her voice growing clipped, “It’s my fault after all. Calling you so hastily when I should have realized you were sleeping.”

“I’m asking you what’s wrong and you’re closing up on me again.”

“But… why does it matter? I’m always fine, aren’t I? So why should you even feel like you even need to do such a thing, princess?”

“Did you call me to start another argument? Because I’m going to hang up right now and leave you alone if you did.” 

“It’s like I told you before—forget about it. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.”

“Why …is it so hard for you to just be honest with me? Why do you always do this?” Himeko asks her, her voice growing muffled again, “Why… why do you always shut me out when I try to be there for you?”

“Me?” Kafka asks, laughing darkly again, “Are you sure it isn’t you who does the very thing you’re accusing me of?”

There’s silence on the other end, before Himeko finally says, “…Maybe you’re right, Kafka. Maybe you’re right.”

And then the line goes dead. 

A former aerospace engineer turned model and the daughter of a crime syndicate boss turned fashion photographer. What kind of life together could they possibly hope to lead?

Kafka, with her magnetic presence, wielding her power like an art form. Himeko and her effortless confidence, moving through the world as if she belonged to a higher realm. Like the stars she used to study. It was a love that couldn’t land, a perfect photograph that not even Kafka could take. They were both women who knew what they wanted, unshakable in what they pursued and desired. 

But… that was the problem. 

They were too alike where it mattered, unable to solve things in the places where they weren’t. 

Himeko was piloting their course, but Kafka dictated the pace. They both tried to lead, never yielding to the control they both tried to maintain. It was like a slow and silent battle, who would blink first to catch the other before she tried to usurp command. But, neither of them ever did. Instead, they sat opposite one another, staring… hardly blinking. Never seeing. 

Kafka thrived in the shadows. Her games and half-truths. A true master of the art of keeping things unsaid. And Himeko, she hated guessing. For her, precision meant survival. Only after knowing the exact answer to her question could she pave the way forward. Kafka would never be the kind to stay and Himeko wasn’t the kind to wait for her.

Himeko’s silent plea—Why won’t you tell me where you’re going? 

Kafka’s dark laugh—Because… everyone likes a little mystery, Princess.

But, Himeko didn’t. Especially, not when it came to love. 

They both should have realized that it would never work from the moment they met. 

A first encounter, dramatic and fleeting. Kafka finds Himeko on the street, scouts her right then and there. You’re pretty, you should give me a call sometime—producing her card with a flirtatious wink as she lowers her sunglasses and continues on her way. 

A second time, a meeting… with coffee. Himeko questions Kafka, Kafka deflects with her standard for half-truth. Elio comes and assuages Himeko’s nerves, proving to be a grounding force in a sea of slowly building insanity. 

But, Kafka is always insistent in getting what she wants. And the more time she spends with Himeko, the more that hunger grows. It breeds itself into Kafka’s unyielding control—she wants her. And gods be damned, she will have her. For if gravity is a proven scientific truth, Kafka tries to confound Himeko’s senses by simply pretending to be the wind. Intangible and weighty, gales that barely amount to the pressure of unyielding gravitational force.

But, Himeko is too straight forward to be caught off-guard by Kafka’s mind tricks. She keeps Kafka on her toes as she sees right through her. 

So Himeko lets her go and Kafka never looked back.

At least, not where anyone could see.

Kafka shuts the front door behind her with more force than necessary, the sound echoing out through the empty apartment.

She waits, taking in the eerie silence that surrounds her. Some part of her, twisted and hopeful, thinks maybe Himeko will call out from the bedroom. It’s late after all, and somehow Kafka hadn’t expected Himeko to wait up for her return from Izumo. Not with how they left things… not with what she said. Or didn’t. 

Kafka moves slowly, like her body is a heavy weight that she’s lugging around and no longer connected to. Her limbs feel too long, her skin too tight over her weary bones. She lets go of her suitcase, letting it drop to the floor as she makes her way down the hall. She’s… tired. 

“Himeko.” Her voice breaks halfway through the name, raw and tired. “I’m home.”

But, there’s no response. 

Kafka stops in front of the bedroom door, letting her head fall forward with a dull thud and calls to her again—Himeko. Still, nothing. She reaches for the knob, turning it slowly and lets the door open with an ominous, creaking whine. 

She should’ve seen this coming—she did see this coming. And still, the absence feels like a blade to the chest.

The light of the hallway filters into the bedroom, truth springing from the shadows. The bed is immaculately made, there are no books on the nightstand that was formerly Himeko’s side. The nightstand is bereft of mugs filled with lukewarm coffee. Kafka ambles into the silent, cold bedroom and finds that the air is stale. Gone—she’s gone. 

Kafka drops to the edge of the mattress on her side of the bed and reaches into the pocket of her coat to pull out her cell phone. One unread message, perfectly timed. As if she knew Kafka was just beginning to process her new reality. The one without her. 

You need to figure out what you want, Kafka. Because I finally have… and I can’t keep being your emergency exit every time you feel the world collapsing in on you.

Her phone clatters onto the nightstand and Kafka sits in silence, listening to nothing. Just the city below and the hum of lights. The same apartment, only gutted, devoid of any warmth. 

Kafka’s eyes drift to the drawer in her nightstand. Third one down. She slowly leans forward and opens it with a familiarity that’s become muscle memory over the years. There’s a small plastic bag filled with white powder and a half-empty bottle of vodka from god-knows-when. She doesn’t hesitate as she unscrews the cap. 

The coke burns going up. 

The vodka chases it down.

When Kafka decides to look in the mirror on that night, there’s a stranger staring back at her. Her hair is messy, her eyes seem too wide. Her lipstick is cracked and there’s a bruise blooming along her collarbone from a wall she’d leaned into too hard back in Izumo when she couldn’t stand anymore.

She will think of the ring still hidden in her suitcase. She was going to do it—she was going to propose. Maybe she would wait for a beautiful day in the spring, during a long weekend where neither of them had work. After all, Himeko had always loved the sun.

Kafka will laugh at her reflection in the mirror, even though later it will fade into a sob. She stumbles around the apartment, bottle in one hand, cradling her head with the other. She won’t sleep, she won’t eat. She does a line off the kitchen counter, another off the fold of her wrist. She keeps the lights off as she sinks to the floor and sprawls out on the cold wooden floor. 

Himeko…

I just needed you to stay—she whispers to no one but herself. 

…Why couldn’t you just stay? 

The vodka bottles pile up. 

Kafka doesn’t eat. She still doesn’t sleep. 

Instead, she retreats to the former and the club becomes instinct. There she can find noise and distraction. Somewhere else to be that isn’t here.  

She gets dressed, sheered and sharp, and smears on red lipstick like war paint. Kafka lines her eyes until they’re weapons, and disappears into the city night with no one to stop her.

Penacony after dark is a playground for people trying to forget. At first, she considers going to the Garden. But, there are too many eyes, too many memories. So she heads to a nameless place tucked into a side street, the kind of club with no sign out front and a bouncer who knows better than to ask for anything other than a wrist.

The inside of the club is as chaotic as her current state of mind. Lights pulse against the walls, the music is deafening. The crowd is dense with bodies pressed too close together. Kafka dives in like it’s the only place where she will find salvation. Like the pounding bass can drown out the ringing silence Himeko left behind.

She orders drinks in pairs, double fisted. Vodka-soda, neat whiskey, doesn’t matter. She swallows it all down like water. When the burn of liquor isn’t enough, she trades a kiss with a girl at the bar for a pill—something bitter and small she doesn’t bother asking the name of.

It buzzes under her skin, making her feel as though something were crawling inside of her and trying to get out. Her pulse picks up, her mouth growing dry. Her hands are trembling again. Her body too light, too empty, too hollow.

She ends up in the club’s grimy bathroom, leaning over the sink, mascara streaked, her lipstick smeared. She stares at her reflection, then at the cracked tile floor. Kafka stumbles into a stall, kneels, and forces herself to vomit. Her body gives in too easily. There’s nothing but alcohol and bile, but she keeps going. Keeps gagging and retching until she sees red. Her throat burns and her stomach twists. But there’s relief—raw and familiar.

When she finally emerges, she looks like a shadow of herself. Her lips are split, her mouth sour, her stomach cramping. Someone offers her another line of something in the stairwell and she doesn’t even blink before she takes it.

This is control, she tells herself. This is freedom. This is forgetting.

It’s dawn when she stumbles through the door—barefoot, one of her heels missing. Her coat is draped inside-out over her shoulders. She collapses onto the floor in front of her fridge, the kitchen spinning around her. She opens the fridge door just to feel the cold. 

Kafka sits there until the sun comes to encroach upon her shadows with blinding light. 

Breathing shallow. Silent.

Alone.

Kafka tries to bury herself in work at the agency. But inside, the silence wraps itself tightly around her. 

Her hands are always trembling. Her vision blurs when she looks at her computer for too long. Her stomach cramps—always empty and acidic—churning with the dregs of another night, another bender. She swallows against the nausea, the ringing in her brain feeling like white noise.

Sometimes she grabs her phone, her shaking fingers stretching and contracting, as she hovers them above the screen. She knows she shouldn’t. She knows Himeko won’t answer. She knows Himeko has moved on. She’s probably somewhere warm and golden… in a house that smells like fresh laundry, laughing at something soft and safe. Probably with someone whose damage doesn’t cling to their skin like rot.

But Kafka presses the call button anyway, each ring feeling like a small and precise incision aimed right for heart. One, two, three. Kafka doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the voicemail chime kicks in.

“You’ve reached Himeko. Leave a message—”

She ends the call before the beep.

Kafka’s hands drop to her sides, her phone clattering to the floor. She stares blankly at the floor, her eyes unmoving as she fixates on one of the legs of her desk. She won’t cry at first. No. The rage comes first—familiar and hot, a defensive instinct. She clenches her jaw so hard it aches.

But, then comes the breath—sharp and shuddering. The sound she makes, from the back of her throat, is wounded and ugly. Like a dying animal with no chance of surviving its injuries. Her breath hitches violently as the first sob rips out of her. None of it is elegant, nor is it controlled. It’s just… broken.

For the first time, Kafka cries like someone who hasn’t in years. 

I was going to ask you to marry me… I was going to…

But, she can’t bear to finish the thought. All she can do is sit in the middle of the storm, mascara bleeding down her cheeks, stomach twisting with hunger and guilt and all the words she never said at the right time.

Outside her office, the agency moves around her. 

No one knocks.

No one checks.

Because Kafka …is always fine.

…Right?

Kafka’s apartment is dimly lit, the heavy curtains pulled shut to keep the twilight light at bay. 

The room is thick with the scent of stale smoke and lingering alcohol. Ashes from a half-burned cigarette fall onto the floor, the cherry glowing faintly in the dark as Kafka takes another drag.

She can barely remember the last few days, everything a blur of restless nights and fractured moments. Her hands tremble as she picks up her phone again, scrolling through the contacts list. Her thumb hovers over Himeko’s name, but she hesitates, then moves on to Acheron’s number. She needs someone—anyone—who might pull her out of this spiral. Someone who might still care.

The call goes to voicemail. Of course it would. Acheron was in self imposed isolation at present. There was no way she was answering anyone’s call no matter how hard they tried.

But even so, the silence that follows is unbearable, deafening. Kafka stares at her phone for a moment before tossing it onto her bed and reaches for another cigarette. Her hands are unsteady, her fingers too weak to hold onto the lighter properly. She tries three times before finally lighting the cigarette.

Her stomach twists painfully, its been hours since she’s eaten anything. She hasn’t had an appetite. She hasn’t felt the need to care. The drugs numb the hunger, and the alcohol dulls everything else. But still, the gnawing emptiness inside her grows, and she tries to ignore it as she smokes another cigarette.

Kafka’s eyes are bloodshot, and her hands shake with the tremor of too much. The bottle of liquor is half-empty, and the lines of coke on the nightstand are starting to blur as her vision sways. She sets her cigarette in the ashtray as she leans over and cuts another line, sniffing more forcefully than usual. The sharp sting hits her nasal passages, and the rush that follows is immediate. Her nose burns and begins to bleed almost immediately, but she doesn’t care. She wipes it away, sucking in a jagged breath as the world starts spinning again.

A buzz of electricity fills her chest, and for a moment, she feels alive again. Her body hums with the high, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

She reaches for her phone again, her hands slipping as she dials Himeko’s number. She presses the phone to her ear, listening to the rings. But, the call goes unanswered. Again.

She slams her fist against the mattress, her frustration mounting—ANSWER ME—she screams. Her voice breaks, the sound echoing off the walls of the empty room. But the phone remains silent and Himeko’s absence is like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. Kafka closes her eyes, squeezing them shut, trying to block out the crushing weight of reality. The ache in her chest intensifies, and she can’t remember the last time she felt whole.

Her breath comes faster, sharp and shallow. The room spins around her as she reaches for another cigarette. Another drink. Another line. Kafka lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, her mind teetering between numbness and madness. 

She needed to get out. She needed to get away from here. From this. 

…It was time for another night at the club. 

Kafka dresses haphazardly, the lipstick dripping from her lips like dried blood. Her eyes flash like switchblades, her wing so sharp it almost pierces her skin. When she arrives, the club is humid and low-lit. Red velvet shadows dance across leather and skin, the thrum of the bass from the sound system vibrating through Kafka’s ribs as she steps inside. Her heels click across the black tile floor, her long coat sweeping behind her like a curtain drawn across an already collapsing stage. 

The scent of sweat, smoke, and sex clings to the air as she stalks past bodies half-nude and writhing. She ignores the murmurs, the glances, the hopefuls that line the walls like mannequins waiting to be chosen. Her eyes scan them without interest—until one kneels before her. Eager. Desperate. Beautiful in the way Kafka knows she can ruin.

She doesn’t bother asking their name.

Kafka grips the submissive’s jaw with a leather-gloved hand and tilts their face up to hers. She asks her—Red or green? To which the woman answers her—Red, Mistress. Kafka smiles, sick and already dying—Good. 

Kafka doesn’t speak much after that. She doesn’t need to. Every command is tight and clipped, her voice low and dangerous. She binds the woman’s wrists above her head, dragging her nails down exposed skin, leaving traces of herself behind. She marks them. Whips them. Pushes them past their limits—and beyond her own. Her dominance is mechanical, automatic, impersonal. There is no warmth in it. No catharsis.

Not anymore.

Eyes down—Her voice is low, trying to remain calm. Her voice is the only thing she still owns, the last piece of her that hasn’t come unstitched. But even that wavers tonight.

The woman nods—obedient as they all are. Kafka grabs a crop from the wall and walks circles around her. She’s trying to focus. Trying to crawl back into her body through dominance, through control, through something that feels like power.

But she’s trembling again. Her hand is holding too tight to the handle, lips twitching as she assess her prey. She starts slow—measured taps against the skin, commands whispered in her signature velvet. The overhead lights flicker, painting red shadows across her face. But it’s not power she feels.

It’s… desperation.

She leans down to whisper in the woman’s ear—You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything and still keep breathing. Yet, the woman doesn’t answer her. Kafka straightens again and exhales, shoving her hair back from her face with a shaking hand.

The submissive whimpers under her, gasping her name like it means something. But, Kafka barely hears it. She’s somewhere else. Her mind fractures and suddenly, she’s pacing in the corner of a hotel room in Izumo, dialing Himeko over and over while Acheron’s unconscious body lies cooling beside her. Her stomach churns, the sweat slick on her back not from effort, but nausea.

“Please, Mistress,” the woman begs her, “Please…”

Kafka blinks. She’s breathing hard. Her vision is blurry. Her gloves are wet with someone else’s tears. 

Kafka pulls away suddenly, like the scene has grown too loud, too close. The woman calls out for her, confused. But Kafka is already gone—running out of the playroom and into the night, heels clattering, breath erratic.

Her stomach twists again, violently this time. She finds an alleyway where she drops to her knees and retches until her throat burns. There’s nothing inside her to throw up—there never is anymore. But her body keeps trying, spasming in dry, pitiful heaves. The blood in her nose has started again. She wipes it on her wrist and forces herself upright. She laughs once, cold and sharp. 

She doesn’t cry. She never wants to cry.

Kafka pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her coat with trembling fingers and manages to light it, even while her hands still shake. She drags in the first inhale like it might stitch something back together inside of her.

…It doesn’t.

The smoke sears her lungs, and it’s sharp, familiar—comforting in the same way a wound is when it finally scabs over. She walks with no destination, heels echoing through the silent streets of Penacony’s underbelly. The neon reflections bleed into puddles and everything smells like yesterday’s sins.

Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket, but Kafka doesn’t check it. It could be no one—or—it could be Himeko. And that’s the cruelest possibility of them all.

The cold bites at Kafka’s cheeks and she tugs her coat in tighter, breath fogging in the air. Her thoughts begin to bleed into one another, unfocused, on an eternal loop that just won’t end. 

Acheron in a hotel room, face down, barely breathing and Himeko whispering to her, “I can’t do this anymore,” as Elio won’t even look at her as he scolds her, “Whatever this is, take care of it before it takes care of you.” And the faceless submissive questions her, “Red or green, Mistress?” To which Kafka answers…

…Red. The world is an eternal shade of bright, dangerous red. 

She leans against a wall in an alleyway and exhales again. Her head tips back, the city’s lights refracting in her eyes like broken glass. Kafka’s tired. Tired in a way that cocaine can’t fix. In a way that domination can’t mask.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket as it buzzes again—and looks at the cracked screen. When it became this way, she doesn’t care, doesn’t know. There’s a missed call from an unknown number. Two messages from Elio—work.

…Nothing from Himeko. And yet, she opens their message thread and looks at it. Praying that somehow, somewhere, Himeko was regretting her choice. That she would come back. That she wanted Kafka just as much as Kafka had tried to deny her want for her. 

You need to figure out what you want, Kafka. Because I finally have… and I can’t keep being your emergency exit every time you feel the world collapsing in on you.

Kafka reads it again. And again.

Her hand tightens on the phone, pressing her forehead against the brick wall and exhales one long, jagged breath. The alley is quiet, the world too still. She wants to scream. To cry. To vanish into nothing.

Instead, she pulls another cigarette out and lights it with shaking fingers. She takes a drag, ash falling in thick grey clumps to the ground, wandering off into the long and endless night for which the sun will never come.

Kafka tells herself she’s fine. She always does.

Yet, the city buzzes like static in her ears. Her knees continue to shake. Her stomach is empty and her throat tastes like acid. She throws up, watching all of the confusion spiral down the drain. Red, violent, painful. 

She stops calling Himeko, doesn’t try to leave any more messages. Instead, Kafka sinks into the concrete beneath her, head in her hands, cigarettes crushed in her pocket, her mascara threatening to run. She laughs softly. It’s bitter and breathless. Yet, it echoes into the quiet that surrounds her. Because there’s nothing left for her to give. And yet, Kafka still keeps breathing. As long as she keeps breathing, she’ll manage to keep herself together. 

Time passes as it always does, but the wound remains open. Tight on the skin, throbbing and leaking. But, she ignores it as she always does and returns to the present for what it is. 

Because even though Himeko leaves her, becoming the catalyst for a disorder which Kafka will refuse to name, the script continues to write itself as it will. Even while Kafka will refute the existence of her ability to love. Of knowing what it is to love. To be seen in all the ways she didn’t wish to be. All of that would fall away, the truth revealing itself in ways she would never believe. 

Because one day… there would be Stelle. 

Chapter Text

Kafka wasn’t here to watch the game, no. She was trying to walk off a headache and her regrets from last night. Too much alcohol, too much cocaine. Cigarettes that burned and scratched at the soreness in her throat. Every inhale felt like she was breathing glass. 

She finds further echoes of her regret in her choice of heels and the silk shirt that clings to her frame. She tries to escape the harsh rays of the sun as she sips on her rapidly cooling iced coffee. The sounds of children yelling and dogs barking made her jaw clench, the throbbing in her temples more evident as she made way through the park. 

And then—Crack.

It’s a hollow, clean sound. The kind that cuts through the humidity of the summer’s day.

Kafka turns her head and across the way, she spots the city’s skyline shimmering behind a chain-link fence. There’s a small rookie league baseball game going on. A collection of worn gloves, dusty shoes, and half-matching shirts with peeling names on the backs. 

Kafka didn’t care about baseball. Hell, she barely knows the specifics of how any game played with balls works. But, there’s a girl on the field. Mid-sprint, grinning wide, her grey hair shining like moon when it catches the sun’s light. She catches the ball in her mitt and throws it back in one fast, clean and graceful motion. 

…And at that moment, Kafka stops walking.

She doesn’t know what it was that held her in place, she only knew she couldn’t look away. There was something about the joy in her eyes, the laughter in her voice as she yelled at some small, pink haired girl across the field. She drops to one knee in the dust, catching the ball as it skips its way toward her again. She throws it back with the same fluid and graceful pitch from before. 

Kafka squints against the sun, her pulse starting to tick… strangely. 

The girl stands, wiping her nose on her arm and pats her hand against her dirt coated shorts. She shouts something to one of her teammates that Kafka can’t hear. But her voice—bright and raw—it was honest. It was genuine. Like she belonged somewhere out in the open, unencumbered and free. Not in the kind of world Kafka was used to. The kind where smiles were forced, light was rationed and everything beautiful came with gnashing teeth.

And still, Kafka didn’t even know her name.

But Kafka couldn’t stop watching her—adjusted her sunglasses—and kept watching. Not for long though, just enough to call it a brief lapse in judgement. She was smart about those things, after all. She watched long enough just to get a feeling, to conjure something she didn’t have a name for yet. It wasn’t desire. Perhaps interest? Either way, she felt like the world was shifting beneath her feet for the first time in a long while. 

Kafka leaves before the inning ends. And as she sits in her office, distractedly tapping her pen against her planner, she’s still thinking about that girl. She wouldn’t know her name—Stelle—until she saw her behind the bar at Dreamjolt Hostelry nearly three weeks later.  

But in the park that day, all Kafka could do was remember how that girl sounded when she laughed. 

Another nightly regret—Kafka’s starting to keep tally at this point. 

She leaves her session earlier than she intends, making a mental note to stop using these god awful apps to try and find a sub who will suit her… particular tastes. 

Kafka’s wandering the streets again, coat draped over her shoulders and a frown on her face. She laments the bottle of wine she left behind in that nameless woman’s apartment, wishing she had something to drown out the memory before it surfaces again. Too many cats, too much baggage. She wants things to be clean and sterile, a contractual agreement and nothing more. She’s not here to provide comfort, of which she barely has any left to give. It’s almost been two years since Himeko left and yet… Kafka’s still hollow at her core. But she continues to cover it up with cleverly disguised self destruction, telling herself that above all else—she’s still in control of it all. 

In the aftermath she finds herself walking the streets of Penacony, knocking shoulders with other passerby’s in the night. A half smoked cigarette hangs between her fingers, smoked in sporadic bursts. It seems to burn down faster than usual. 

Kafka comes to a stop on the street, tossing the cigarette away to light another one. As the dead lighter flicks away under her thumb and she curses to herself, the sound of laughter and loud whooping sounds breaks her out of her concentration. She looks up briefly, catching sight of the neon sigh above her head and her eyebrows lift in recognition. Dreamjolt Holstery. Her eyes lower once more and she shrugs to herself. Forget the cigarette, she wanted a drink instead. 

The lounge wasn’t Kafka’s usual scene, but she had been here a couple of times before. Back when Siobhan used to work the counter and Kafka had thrown careless flirtations her way that just couldn’t seem to land. It was rare for a woman to refuse her and Kafka was never wrong about her targets. But this one… it was almost like she was able to read Kafka and said—nope, you don’t want to go there. A pity that. 

Either way, it wasn’t too hard for Kafka to blend in amid the ambient noises of some retro synthwave coming from the speakers overhead. She slid onto a barstool, crossed her legs, and gave the room a quick once-over. Dim lights, velvet booths, and low lighting. It’s not like she cared if anyone here would recognize her, she just didn’t feel like being seen somewhere she meant to be.

She leans back, in search of the bartender and ready for a drink. Kafka spots one, a female. The sleeves of her wrinkled black shirt are rolled up to her elbows, her hair pulled back messily like she’d done it in a rush. She was laughing at something a customer said, shaking a cocktail tin with one hand while pouring soda with the other. Fast, graceful, muscle memory automation.

And then Kafka went still.

…It was that girl from the park. 

She adjusted her posture slightly, enough to look relaxed. Disinterested even. But her heart skipped and tripped over itself, a half-beat off rhythm. The girl turned and saw Kafka. She said something to the previous customer, before walking over to where Kafka sat. She smiled—just polite, just work—but there was a flicker of curiosity too, like maybe there was something about Kafka that seemed out of place.

“What can I get you?” she asked, voice light and steady.

Kafka didn’t answer right away. She looked at her for a second too long. Finally, she leaned an elbow down on the bar and something dark flashed in her eyes, “Do you know how to make a proper Manhattan?” Kafka asked.

“Didn’t peg you for a whiskey type.”  

Kafka tilts her head, amused, “And what type did you peg me for?

The girl smirked. “The type to insult me while I’m pouring?”

Kafka huffed a quiet laugh, one corner of her mouth tugging up. “Surprise me.”

The girl nodded, already moving. Confident, with no showmanship. Just skill, and Kafka liked watching her work. That laugh from the park still echoed somewhere deep and strange in her chest.

The drink landed in front of her with a practiced slide. Dark amber, perfect glass, single cube. Kafka raises an eyebrow. “No cherry?”

The bartender tilted her head to the side, trying to read Kafka’s expression. “You don’t seem like the garnish type.”

“Oh? Assessing me already are you?”

“It comes with the territory.” The bartender answers, folding a bar towel without looking. She tilts her head toward Kafka’s untouched glass, “Go on then. Tell me what you think.”

Kafka was used to being invisible when she wanted, or fascinating when she didn’t. But this girl cut through both like it wasn’t a trick worth caring about. Kafka grabs the glass and takes a small, measured sip. It was good, annoyingly good. She looked back up at the bartender who was still waiting for her response.

“Well?”

“It’s good.” Kafka says without extending her hand, “Kafka.” 

“Stelle.” Stelle answers back with a curt nod and the same smile from before. 

Kafka regards Stelle for a moment, eyeing the sleeves of her shirt, “…You play ball.”

Stelle blinked. “What?”

Kafka nods toward Stelle’s arms. “Your tan lines are a mess.” She scrutinizes her further as she sets her drink down, “…You catch left-handed.”

Stelle just stared, wondering how in the world this woman could have picked up on something so subtle. Perhaps it was because she already knew. Unperturbed, she rests her hands on the bar, “Rookie league. Wednesday afternoons when the weather is good.”

“So? Do you just pitch or catch?” Kafka continues, her words laden with unspoken subtext, “Bat? Perhaps a little of both?” 

Stelle laughs, genuine and hearty, “A little of everything I suppose.” She pulls back, redirecting the conversation away from herself, “You from around here?”

“No,” Kafka said. “I don’t tend to stay anywhere long. But…” She picks her glass up and swivels it around in her hand, “…I’ve seemed to have made Penacony a permanent pit stop for now.”

“Pit stop, huh? Doesn’t sound like you’re sold on staying.”

Kafka took another slow sip, her eyes fixed on Stelle, “I don’t make a habit of staying where people can find me.”

Stelle raised an eyebrow. “And yet here you are. At a bar. Ordering cocktails from strangers.”

“I’m just passing through.” Kafka said. Her voice was velvet, but her words were evasive. Calculated.

Stelle nodded, like she understood that kind of answer. “So… what is it you do, Kafka?”

Kafka lips parted, then curved. “A bit of this. A bit of that. People tend to ask me for help when they don’t want anyone else to know that they need it.”

Stelle hummed like that answer didn’t surprise her. “Discretion is your middle name?”

“Not officially, but I’ve made it a habit.”

“You don’t strike me as the modest type,” Stelle said, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“I’m not modest. I’m just particular.”

Stelle leaned back and picked up a clean glass. “So what made you stop into my bar tonight, Kafka?”

Kafka twirled the amber liquid in her glass again, eyes dipping down briefly before she looked up with something sly and unapologetic in her gaze. “I told you,” she said. “I’m just passing through.”

Stelle didn’t push, didn’t pry. Just nodded once like she’d accepted Kafka’s answer for what it was. Then she turned, casually wiping down the back of the bar, giving Kafka space to finish her drink—or finish her thoughts. Kafka watched Stelle move with the same quiet intrigue as before, finding that there was no need for any more words on that night.

She finished her drink in silence, paying for the drink and slipping away from the bar before Stelle turns back around. 

Kafka doesn’t leave a tip, but she looked back before walking out.

There’s another baseball game in the park. 

The early summer sun blazed down on the field, heat rippling over the bases as the game dragged through its fifth inning. Stelle’s team was up by one, and the dugout buzzed with chatter, shouts and a mixture of cheers. 

Far off on the benches surrounding the chainlink fence of the outfield, a figure sat alone. She was perfectly still, a silhouette in dark sunglasses and an equally long black coat she should’ve been sweating in. She looked absurdly overdressed for a such an event, like she belonged in a noir film or a crime scene of some sort. Yet, she sips from her cup of iced coffee and remains an outlier, disregarding any attention she might draw. 

March 7th spots her first, pausing as she brings her water bottle to her mouth. She leans in to the man at her side, currently observing a scuffed up baseball bat, and nudges him with her arm, “Dan Heng?”

Dan Heng doesn’t look up, but acknowledges her, “What is it March?” 

“There’s… there’s something weird going on.” March 7th replies, her gaze unwavering as she stares at the strange woman in all black. “Do you see her? The far bench, in the black coat and sunglasses. The weird lady with the ominous energy.”

Dan Heng glances at March 7th, before following her line of sight. He lets the bat swing down to the floor, merely commenting, “That woman’s been sitting there since the second inning.”

“You mean you noticed her too and didn’t say anything?!” March 7th continues on, “She’s barely moved.” Her voice lowers as she grabs hold of Dan Heng’s shoulder and wrangles him backward, further into the dugout, “Is she a scout or something? Or like—an assassin? She looks like an assassin.”

“I don’t think assassins come to amateur league games,” Dan Heng said dryly.

March 7th frowned. “Well, she’s not clapping. Or cheering. Or blinking. She’s just… watching. Like she’s sizing us up for caskets.” She narrows her eyes, “She must be an assassin.” 

“Maybe she’s just here to watch the game.” Dan Heng says, failing to see the urgency of March 7th’s hysterics.

“She looks like she’s judging my soul.”

“She probably is.”

“She looks like she eats diamonds for breakfast.”

“…Maybe that too.” 

Stelle, finally having a moment to step off the field, returns to the dugout and catches the tail end of their conversation. She pulls her cap off her head and rakes her arm across her sweat streaked forehead, “What are you two whispering about over there?” 

March pointed outright in Kafka’s direction, jabbing accusingly at her unspoken presence, “This weird lady that’s been watching us like a hawk.”

Stelle peered out of the dugout, squinting against the glare of the sun. At first, it was hard to see past the sunlight, but then—her heart did a small, very specific lurch. A strange, low thrum began to beat in Stelle’s ears. Oh—they were talking about that woman. 

It was her—Kafka. Sitting so still, like she’d materialized out of nowhere. Same sunglasses, same distant composure. The wind picked up a strand of her hair, and she didn’t even twitch to fix it. Kafka still hadn’t moved, hadn’t waved. She just sat there like she was content to watch from afar. 

Any moment now, it seemed as if a flock of crows would descend from the sky and land upon her shoulders and the ground at her feet. Crowing in ominous tones as they blinked their dark beady eyes and batted their wings—Caw, we have completed your nefarious bidding, Mistress. And although Stelle couldn’t see it, Kafka’s lips faintly twitched into the barest ghost of a smile.

“…Caw.” Stelle mutters to herself, retreating back into the dugout and turning back to March 7th and Dan Heng. 

“Did you see her? What if she’s one of those sports recruiters? Or like, a really intense fan of someone?” March 7th rambles on, her eyes flickering maddeningly between Stelle and Dan Heng. 

“She doesn’t look like one,” Dan Heng gave her a look and then swung the bat over again, firmly holding it within two hands, “And no-one here has any fans. Do you know how many games we’ve lost this season?”

“It’s braver to root for the underdog.” March 7th counters, “Anyway, she just screams bad vibes.” 

Stelle shuffles back a bit, trying to remain inconspicuous. She could feel Kafka’s gaze from here, even through the sunglasses. It wasn’t hostile. Just focused. Curious, even. But reserved, no wave. No acknowledgment. Caw, caw. 

“She’s probably just passing through,” Stelle finally said. She clears her throat and readjusts her cap again, feeling oddly self-conscious, “I gotta get back out on the field. You guys have fun with… our mysterious onlooker.” 

The game resumed, but Stelle found her rhythm a little off. Her pitches drop too low, drawing a grunt from the catcher. She wasn’t distracted—at least that’s what she told herself. But her head kept drifting toward where Kafka sat, unmoving, as if the heat didn’t touch her at all. Sip—the straw from the cup of iced coffee barely touches her lips, leaving no stain of her red lipstick behind on its plastic surface. She sits like a mannequin out of place. Like an alien in a foreign place. 

By the time the final inning wrapped and Stelle’s team took the win, she barely noticed the high-fives or the “hell yeahs” from her teammates. Her eyes were already drifting to where Kafka had been—

Gone.

The bench was empty.

Stelle stood in the outfield for too long, glove hanging from one hand. She turned slowly, wiping her wrist across her forehead as March 7th jogged up beside her.

“So, uh… the weird lady bailed. ” March 7th said, nudging her. She pauses, her forehead wrinkling in concern, “Are you sure you didn’t know her? I know you seem to attract… interesting types from time to time.” She tilts her head to the side, “You know. With that job of yours and all.” 

Stelle shrugged, trying to remain casual, but it was a little too quick. “Don’t think so.”

Dan Heng walked up behind them. “She didn’t leave through the lot.”

March 7th perked up. “You were watching her.”

“She was being purposely unsettling.” he deadpanned.

Stelle’s lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. Instead, she scanned the tree line beyond the field, the long sidewalk that curved toward the entrance to the park. A shadow could’ve disappeared there easily—a shadow like Kafka. 

“Hey,” March 7th said, elbowing her lightly. “You okay?”

Stelle nodded, “Just tired.”

But she couldn’t shake the feeling—not exactly worry, not quite excitement either. It was something in-between, something that twisted and coiled under her skin like a quiet charge.

Kafka hadn’t said a word.

And yet somehow, Stelle felt like she’d been touched.

The lounge was quieter than usual that night—dim lighting, slow jazz pulsing through the speakers, the kind of atmosphere that made secrets feel like they belonged in the air.

Kafka slipped in through the door like a shadow, dressed sharper than necessary in a dark coat that caught just enough of the overhead light. Her sunglasses remained on, though the sun had long since dipped below Penacony’s horizon. Stelle caught the movement from behind the bar and lifted her head. A practiced smile of ease comes to her face, in an unbothered way that Kafka had already memorized far more than she should have.

“Well, look who’s decided to haunt my bar again,” Stelle said, before Kafka even had time to speak, “Perhaps to leave that tip you forgot about last time?” 

Kafka’s lips curled slightly. “I’ve been thinking about that Manhattan. Thought I should give it a proper second opinion.”

“You just missed happy hour,” Stelle quipped as she sets an empty glass down on the polished bar. “But I’ll let it slide.”

Kafka takes a seat at the bar and lets her coat fall open. She doesn’t speak just yet, allowing the silence to stretch on as she likes. Stelle didn’t press, busying herself with making Kafka’s drink. She sets it down before she goes to tend to another patron that hails her attention, her eyes flickering to Kafka briefly, before walking away. 

Yet, she keeps her eye on Kafka, even while her focus is occupied with the patron that wants to chat her up. Stelle manages to excuse herself when she sees Kafka’s glass is empty and she looks expectantly at her without even saying anything. Stelle places her hands on the bar, leaning in slightly as she regards Kafka. 

“Want another?” 

“If you would indulge me.” 

“Coming right up.” Stelle turns to the bar and pulls a bottle of whiskey down from one of the higher shelves, “So…” She begins, casual, yet careful. 

“Yes?” Kafka asks, finally removing her sunglasses from her face and setting them down on the bar in front of her.

“Do… you like baseball?”

Kafka’s brow arched slightly, “I like silence. Sometimes you can find it in the sunshine as it filters through the trees.”

Stelle sets the Manhattan down in front of Kafka and gives her a look, “…But, you weren’t in the trees. You were there, just beyond the outfield.”

Kafka tilted her glass and took another slow sip, her lips brushing the rim with deliberate grace. “Was I that obvious?”

“My… roommate said you had bad vibes,” Stelle says with a grin. “So… yeah.”

Kafka exhaled something between a laugh and a sigh. “How charming.”

“I didn’t expect you to be the type to stalk little league games.”

“I wasn’t stalking. I was… observing.”

“Observing.” Stelle echoed, clearly amused.

Kafka set her glass down, fingers still resting on its edge. Her tone lowered, just slightly. “You’re interesting to watch.”

Stelle feels something pulse within her cheat again. That line between flirtation and something more opaque. She leans back, resting her hands on the bar behind her, watching Kafka just as closely now. “You …could’ve just said hi.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” Kafka shrugs her shoulders, “Besides, I wasn’t trying to add—traumatic injury from a baseball bat—to the repertoire of injuries I’ve experienced in life.” 

Stelle grabbed a napkin and refolded it, her smile a little softer now. “Well, next time… interrupt.”

“Next time, then.” It didn’t feel like a promise, but it didn’t feel like she was lying either. Kafka’s hand brushed against her wrist as she reached for the glass again. “So… what team do you pitch for?” 

“Pardon?” Stelle asks, caught off guard. 

“The name of your team.” Kafka clarifies, a sly smile spreading across her face. As if she could be referring to anything other than that, “What do you call yourselves? Your uniforms lacked any formal cohesion.”

“Oh…” Stelle recovers, her forehead furrowing, “The Astral Express.” 

“Hm… on an express course to victory, perhaps?” 

“Not at all, we really suck.” Stelle chuckles, “But… it’s fun to play with everyone, I guess. Kinda gives you something to look forward to when the work week is dragging along.” She reaches for a towel and begins wiping a stray glass that’s already clean, looking for something to occupy her hands with, “And yourself?” 

“Hm?” 

“What do you do for work?” 

“You’ve asked me this question before.” Kafka sets her empty glass down on the bar, leaving Stelle’s question unanswered, “Another one. And … with a cherry this time.” 

Stelle grinned. “Still didn’t think you wanted one.”

“Oh, you assumed wrong then. I love cherries… absolutely covet them.” She smiles, soft and hazy, her statement laden with unspoken innuendo. Kafka steers the direction of the conversation, leaving Stelle’s question hanging in limbo, “I do have a question for you though.”

“And that is?” 

“Where is Siobhan?” Kafka asks, “Nights always seemed fuller—longer—when she was standing behind the bar. A night off, perhaps?”

Stelle shakes her head, “She hasn’t been here for awhile. Left a couple of months after I started working here.” She reaches for a rag and begins to wipe down stray specks of liquid on the bar’s surface, “Were you looking for a drink from her instead?” 

“What if I asked you to pour me one more?”

Stelle’s grin widened. “Then I guess I’d be here a little longer.”

“Did you have somewhere else you needed to be?” 

“At this time of night? Perhaps back at home playing video games for one.” Another rivulet of information slips out of Stelle—plays baseball, likes video games—allowing Kafka to compile it into her mental dossier. She pauses, “But looks like I’m here until that clock tells me it’s time for me to leave.”

“Fancying a change of pace in life?” Kafka asks.

“Are you offering?” 

Kafka pauses, before she takes a sip of her drink, “Only if you want it.” 

There is a danger lying underneath Kafka’s words that Stelle misses, or perhaps she wants to just ignore it instead. She leans down on the bar again, “So… I’m still waiting on an answer for that question of mine.” 

“Which one? You seem to be full of them tonight.”

“What is it that you do exactly?”

Kafka looks down at her drink, running her tongue along the top of her teeth. Before she can answer, someone calls to Stelle from the other end of the bar. She tilts her head to the side, “I think you should tend to that instead focusing all your attention on me.” 

Stelle huffs, slowly finding herself reaching the point of madness with all of Kafka’s deflections and u-turns. How easily she finds herself caught in the web she unknowingly wandered into. She turns her back on Kafka for just a moment to start making a new drink, and when she turns around… she’s gone. 

The only remnant of her existence remains on a pristine white napkin—Kafka’s number written in lipstick the color of blood. 

Sometimes Kafka’s in it for the slow burn. 

When a relationship begins like the slowest of collisions. Like a car hitting a brick wall, glass splintering into the air. Mouths agape, the combination of steel and plastic being shredded into an unrecognizable heap. 

In the beginning, Kafka didn’t mean to keep coming back. She told herself it was the drink—perfect balance, no garnish—no nonsense. Then it was the atmosphere—dim lights, sometimes the low hum of jazz or that abhorrent synth-wave mess that Stelle seemed to love. But it wasn’t the drink. Or the lighting. Or convenience. Maybe, it was the girl behind the bar.

Sometimes she watches Stelle fumble her orders. Two old-fashioneds, one dirty martini, and a request she couldn’t quite hear over the laughter of businessmen in tailored suits. Her hands were quick, but not practiced. She tried to double-check the proportions on the sly, trying to mask her uncertainty with a crooked smile.

Kafka, seated alone at the end of the bar, watched the entire thing over the rim of her glass. You’re lost, aren’t you?—she said casually that night, uninvited but not unkind. She leans in, motioning for Stelle to come closer so that she can whisper the information into her ear. Don’t forget a wink and a smile, a little casual flirtation as you serve them. Make them serve you. Not the other way around. 

The notion makes Stelle wrinkle her nose, her lack of experience about the ways of the world evident by the way she recoils at Kafka’s suggestion. But she does so, listens to the silent suggestions of subterfuge and it goes off without hitch. 

And Kafka keeps coming back, so Stelle listens to her. Again. And again.

Sometimes on the weekend, sometimes after a work dinner, always in something sleek, wine red and black. Always with perfect posture. Always choosing the same seat, same drink, same way of watching Stelle with veiled scrutiny. Stelle tells Kafka that most people usually leave when they’re not being entertained, to which Kafka responds that Stelle is entertaining in her own messy way. Stelle bristled at that statement—Kafka smirking like a cat toying with a clever mouse.

Sometimes Kafka stays after closing, offering Stelle—tempting Stelle—with the suggestion of something more. But Stelle declines. She’s not up for propositions from some strange woman who call her a mess. Kafka laughs, telling Stelle she isn’t a mess, but more of a question to her. A question she needs to be answered. 

She finds Kafka outside the back of the lounge one rainy night, needing space and a breather after a particularly difficult customer who berated her for apparently watering down their scotch. Kafka smiles at her, eyes glowing in the dark, shielding herself from the rain with an umbrella in one hand, a steadily burning cigarette in the other. Stelle screams as she sees her loitering about in the darkness. Caw, caw—the call of imaginary crows from before. 

Kafka chuckles at Stelle’s distress—You look like you need some air.

Stelle takes a deep breath—You look like you need some boundaries.

Kafka chuckles, smoking her cigarette and remains silent. Why? Why does Kafka keep coming here? Kafka will say it is because Stelle doesn’t know what she wants and Stelle counters by asking Kafka if she does. But of course. Kafka always knows what she wants, even in the midst of figuring out the particulars and specifics of it all. 

Kafka chucks the cigarette to the floor and slowly turns on her heel—You know, Stelle…you could learn a lot from me if you listened.

Like what? 

Kafka smiles, before turning and walking away. Her response falls on deaf ears, beneath the whistling of the wind and soft pitter patter of the rain.

What it means to take what you want, but should not have.

They shift—summer passes into autumn, falling into winter, burgeoning again with life in spring. Kafka starts leaving behind little comments that feel like riddles. Stelle started dressing differently on nights Kafka might show up. Their conversations lengthen, their silences deepen. 

On a slow night, Kafka shows up later than usual. She’s buzzed from some work party, but still looks pristine. Yet, there’s a weariness in her eyes that makes her appear more tired than usual. Hollow around the edges in a way that Stelle hadn’t seen before. She pours Kafka a drink without being asked, something soft and light. 

Stelle dries her hands off on a towel, “Are you all right? You look like you’ve had a long one.” 

Kafka just looked at her for a long moment. “Do you always ask your customers that?”

Stelle gave a lopsided shrug. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t want to be noticed.”

That earned her a breath of a laugh. Kafka swirled the glass, lips pursed, but she didn’t respond. 

A few minutes pass. Stelle turns her back on Kafka, setting a glass into place in the bar. She speaks offhandedly, “You act like you’ve got everything figured out. But …you still come here like you’re trying to remember something important.”

Kafka stilled mid-sip, lowering her glass to the bar. She watches Stelle, resting her chin in her hand, not saying a word. They haven’t spoken of anything that matters—not her job, not her loneliness, not the way Kafka’s touch would burn if Stelle let it. But, it’s there. A slow burn. A lesson in patience. In wanting and waiting for the chance to strike.

And neither of them is pretending not to notice anymore.

Kafka’s voice is quiet, nearly fond as she replies.

…Clever girl.

Kafka preoccupies herself with Stelle so she doesn’t have to think about another aspect of her past that she has yet to face. 

Kafka doesn’t tell anyone the full story of what happened in Izumo, not even Elio. Though she suspects he could piece most of it together from the way her voice cracked when she said she needed to stay. It exists in her memory as if waterlogged—heavy, saturated, dripping.

Kafka still remembers the cold and clammy feel of Acheron’s skin on her hand. The press of her fingers against her rapidly fading pulse. Acheron had felt cold in a way Kafka didn’t think a living person’s skin ever could. It was death’s early whisper clinging to her fingers, making her movements clumsy as she fumbled for signs of life. 

She remembers the way she sprinted to the phone to dial down to the front desk and desperately tried to remember the Izumo word for ambulance. Something silly that sounded like pewpewshut. Even though there was nothing silly or humorous about the situation she currently found herself in. 

Kafka’s memories exist in fragments, blurry with the smell of antiseptic. Watching Acheron—comatose and pale—getting shuffled off into the ambulance. The weightless suspension of Kafka’s coat soaked from rain that she hadn’t even registered. A call to Himeko that was pointless and a waste of time. Sitting with Acheron in the hospital, an anchor amidst the chaos. Staying in Izumo longer than she intended. Finding a way to try and fix a series of mishaps and mess she hadn’t accounted for when she stepped off her flight from Penacony nearly a week ago. 

She calls Elio and tells him with a weary voice that she needs… to stay here for a while. There’s something about Acheron that she needs to tend to and it’s important and—Elio stops here before she can even explain herself. He understands, he already knows. Even though he remains almost unreadable as Kafka is, there is an unspoken camaraderie that exists between her and her boss. He tells her to take her time, no matter how long it takes. 

So Kafka stayed. Past her return date, past her obligations, past the moment where this should have been someone else’s problem. But it was hers. Kafka had touched that fading body and known something unspoken passed between them—responsibility. And now it had morphed into guilt. An indecipherable platonic love twisting at odd angles.

Days passed in quiet cycles. Kafka sat in hospital chairs that squeaked when she moved. She tried to speak to Acheron when she woke up and stared blankly ahead. She let her phone go dark, brushing out the knots within Acheron’s hair. Kafka fought with doctors when they pushed too hard, filled out paperwork when Acheron could barely lift her hand. She slept little, ate even less.

And eventually—when Acheron was well enough to whisper words, but not yet ready to face the world—Kafka offered her presence. Kafka didn’t try to play savior. She brought clean clothes and sat in silence. She did research—frantically, obsessively—on withdrawal symptoms, neurological trauma, recovery options—anything that could give her some path forward. 

They discharge Acheron and Kafka arranges everything. Discreetly, quietly. The same way she handled her own trauma, with efficiency and avoidance. She didn’t think about Himeko, or the life she left paused in Penacony. She stayed on instinct alone, acting like fixing this—fixing Acheron—would make her whole again.

She keeps busy and tends to the logistics so that Acheron doesn’t have to think. Kafka tries to bury the weight of what IX had done, reassuring the husk of her lifelong friend that stood before her that she was finally safe. But, Acheron doesn’t feel safe no matter how much Kafka tries to assure her that she is. 

So Kafka looked elsewhere outside of Izumo—somewhere far enough for Acheron to feel untethered to the remnants of her former life. Somewhere by the sea—a place Kafka liked to escape to when the world felt like it was caving in on her and she had nowhere to run. 

…Somewhere like Takamagahara.

Takamagahara—the land of the gods. Like it was a codeword for mercy. 

A small seaside town where the air tasted like salt and the people didn’t ask too many questions. Kafka framed it carefully. She gently suggests to Acheron that she should leave Izumo and find somewhere to heal—find a place to escape. A soft place to land. It wasn’t exile—it was recovery.

Kafka arranges the particulars of Acheron’s stay and tells her that there was no pressure to be better on a schedule. Just that she deserved to rest …somewhere far from all of it.

Kafka remembers their goodbye, just like the one in the peach orchard so many years before this. The sea breeze ruffles Acheron’s hair as Kafka hugs her and watches her go. And then the train platform feels… empty after she is gone.

Kafka won’t cry until she boards the train back to Izumo. She’ll sit on the bench of the train platform for a long time, watching the tide roll in on the beach in the distance. She tries not to imagine how it could’ve gone differently. Or how it nearly did.

These days, she preoccupies herself with other things. Other people. And she thinks about Acheron a little less now, but she never forgets. But, as the summer heat slowly encroaches on the warmth of spring—she has to think about her more than she has in years. 

Kafka walks through the sleek corridors of the agency, her footsteps muffled against the polished floors. She’s aware of the people around her. But, none of their voices seem to reach her. All of the conversations blur as she moves past them, feeling like a ghost, barely tethered to the present moment.

The folder she carries in her hand feels like unresolved weight—the paperwork for Acheron’s contract with Elio. It too is floating somewhere in the liminal space that surrounds her. Detached… just like everything else.

Her office door closes behind her with a soft click, and she stands there for a moment, just breathing. Kafka’s still holding the folder, but she doesn’t want to open it. She doesn’t want to touch the papers inside. Instead, she lets the weight of it press into her chest as she sinks into the chair behind her desk. The quiet of her office feels louder than it should. She feels like she’s just waiting for something to happen. Or perhaps, she’s waiting for it all to stop again. 

She decides to put on some classical music to still the ear numbing silence. Kafka looks above her, feeling one of the overhead lights flicker, caught on that split second of imperfection. She places the folder down on the desk without opening it, instead turning her attention to the window. The world outside is moving, people walking, cars driving, all of it distant. So distant.

A faint thought drifts through her mind—an image of Acheron, sitting in the market—but then it morphs into something darker, a memory that’s clawing at her from the corners of her mind. 

…Am I doing the right thing by bringing you into this place once again? 

Kafka closes her eyes, her fingers tensing and turning white as she grips onto her desk. It’s too much. Everything has once again become too much, and she feels herself unraveling again. The loose ends of everything she’s been holding back becoming too hard to keep in.

She pushes herself up suddenly, as though the chair might suffocate her if she doesn’t. She paces in tight circles in front of her desk. The room is starting to feel smaller, the air much thicker than she would like. 

Kafka stops in mid-pace to stare down at the folder once again. She growls, clenching her teeth and picks it up into her hands. She throws it across the desk with no care for the mess it makes. It slides off the edge, papers scattering onto the floor. It’s just paperwork. It doesn’t matter… but it does. 

The sound of it hitting the floor echoes in her ears. Kafka stands still, staring down at it for a few long seconds before her vision blurs. Her breathing quickens, and she feels a wave of nausea. The urge to just disappear is so overwhelming that she can barely stay upright. 

I failed you once before… what could I be thinking by conjuring up the possibility of failing you again? 

The door to her office remains shut. The agency continues to move in circles around her and Kafka is left alone in this tight, suffocating space. She could leave her office and slip out for a smoke break. Keep playing the part that everyone knew, keep pretending to be the cunning and charming sociopath that everyone purported her to be. 

But she doesn’t. 

She stands there, staring at the mess of papers she made on her desk and the floor.

Finally, with slow and deliberate movements, she bends down and begins gathering the scattered papers into her hands. One by one, she places them back into the folder. The motion is automatic, a quiet act of control in the midst of all her internal conflicts. She leans against the desk, pinching the bridge of her nose, feeling utterly hollow.

Are you even ready to face the world again? …Or am I, for that matter? 

And then the moment breaks. The vulnerability spills out—the memory of Acheron face down in the bathroom once more—a sob catching in her throat. She presses a fist to her mouth to stifle the sound. A knock on her office door—sharp and insistent—breaks the fragile silence. Kafka quickly wipes her face again, clearing her throat, doing her best to steady herself.

“Come in,” she calls, trying to keep her voice from sounding strained. 

The door opens, and she doesn’t have to see who it is to know it’s Black Swan.

And yet, Kafka still doesn’t look up.

Stelle’s face brightens as Kafka approaches. 

She brings with her dark blue skies, the hum of orange on the edges. The sun will rise again soon enough, but for now, they still have the secrecy that the night provides. The glow of Dreamjolt Holstery’s neon sign illuminates said secrets in Kafka’s eyes. Yet, she keeps them close to her heart. 

This time with Stelle… it’s different for some reason. 

She’s not thinking about the next person she has to ensnare in her spider’s web, or shoot down before their bloated ego gets the better of them. She watches Stelle rapidly wave to her, her cheeks flushing over from the clamminess that hangs in the air. There was something just too young—too sweet—about her. Like she was something Kafka doesn’t deserve.

“You look like trouble.” Stelle says, giving Kafka the once over and taking in her velvet and rose colored ensemble, “Fancy party tonight?” 

Kafka gave a soft hum, without answering right away. Fancy? Hm, perhaps to onlookers it might have seemed as such. But this night had been chaos—pure and unhinged chaos.

For a moment, Kafka’s thoughts flit back to the reason for said chaos. The two soft and troubled souls that she had left behind in that aforementioned hotel room in The Reverie. A kind of emotionally-fueled, alcohol-drenched spiral that only Black Swan and Acheron could conjure. And Kafka, the conductor. Orchestrating the entire symphony to its well deserved crescendo. The anchor. The breeder of temptation. And she had left, right before anything became truly irreversible. 

“Party was fine,” Kafka says, shrugging her shoulders. “Work things and all that.” 

Stelle gives her a little grin. “Your dress looks even better in person.”

Kafka’s lips twitched into a wry smile. “Oh, does it?”

Stelle snorted, nudging Kafka as they begin to walk with no destination in mind, “Are you ever not in control of a room?”

“No,” Kafka said simply. “Believe it or not, I pick my moments.”

They pause for a moment at an empty street corner. Kafka feels Stelle’s fingers brush across her own, hesitant, unsure if they should be held. The light turns green and they continue across the street walk to the other side. 

Stelle gives her a tired smile, “…Anything else happen worth talking about tonight?” 

Kafka looked at Stelle, feeling a slight twisting in her chest. She could—should—lie. Or perhaps, maybe she could tell a prettier version of the truth? But either way, she wouldn’t let that darkness reach Stelle’s heart. Kafka shrugs her shoulders with a characteristic sense of ambivalence.

“Just tired.” She responds, pausing for structure, subtly controlling the flow of the conversation, “Are you coming back with me tonight?”

“I… was hoping I could?” Stelle asks her, a hopeful lilt in her voice, “I kind of want a quiet night. I don’t really want to go back home to find March and Dan Heng marathoning Mario Kart with the volume at ear deafening levels. Little too tired for that.”

“Takeout and a bath?” Kafka asks her without missing a beat. 

Stelle’s smile widened. “Only if I can use your expensive soap.”

Kafka shrugged nonchalantly, “I’ll allow it.”

“Should we get a cab then?”

Kafka shakes her head, “…I was hoping to see the sun rise first. You’d allow me that simple little pleasure, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fair enough.” Stelle said, “I probably won’t be falling asleep before eight anyway.”

“Tell me about work.” Kafka murmurs, reaching into her clutch and rummaging around for a cigarette. 

“Are you sure? It’s … not all that interesting compared to what you do.” 

“You’re a bartender, Stelle.” Kafka mutters out of the side of her mouth as she lights her cigarette with one flick of her thumb on the lighter. She takes a drag, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth, “You hear stories of terror and woe and heartbreak all night. Please, don’t sell yourself so short.” 

“Well…” Stelle shrugs her shoulders, “They stuck me with the new guy tonight. He managed to spill an entire tray of drinks down my legs right when my shift started—and then—he has the audacity to try and hit on me while apologizing.”

Kafka’s lip curled in disdain. “Should’ve kneed him.”

“I thought about it,” Stelle said with a grin. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten his tip. Which was… not enough for emotional damages.”

Kafka turned her head, just slightly. “You want me to find him?”

Stelle laughed. “You’d do that?”

“I’d do worse,” Kafka said smoothly, but she was half-smiling now, “You should know I’ve killed for less.”

Stelle has the gall to laugh again, failing to see the tiny sliver of truth in Kafka’s words. A quiet settles between them for a moment. It’s comfortable but edged with something unspoken. Stelle looks at her again, her eyes roaming over Kafka’s profile.

“You really do look stunning, though,” Stelle murmured, “Like… movie star stunning. Makes me feel underdressed just being with you.”

Kafka takes a drag from her cigarette, feigning disinterest at Stelle’s remarks, “You’re not underdressed. You’re… just you, Stelle.”

Stelle raised a brow. “Wow. High praise.”

Kafka cuts her a look, “I don’t compliment often, so don’t get greedy.”

“Are you always this grumpy after work parties?”

Kafka doesn’t answer right away. The words sat on the tip of her tongue—things like I had a free show tonight with Black Swan and Acheron or I almost orchestrated a threesome just to keep the peace—but she swallows them. She takes another quick drag, tapping the ash off the tip of the cigarette.

“Sometimes …people blur their boundaries after a few glasses of wine. It’s part of the job—managing egos, soothing bruised pride.”

Stelle tilted her head. “And so… what soothes you when you find yourself in that type of situation?”

Kafka glanced at her, a little caught off guard.

“Or… is that something you don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t.” Kafka’s voice was soft but firm. “But, thank you for asking.”

Stelle nodded, not pushing. “Okay.”

Silence again, the quiet of the early morning growing thicker now, heavier. Kafka slowed her pace as they meandered down a nameless street, turning her head up to the slowly lightening sky. She came to a stop, tilting her head back and sucking hard on the filter of the cigarette. Stelle still had the scent of beer and citrus cleaner clinging to her, while Kafka smelled like expensive perfume and something older—velvet smoke and unresolved tension from the past. Stelle comes to a stop beside her, waiting for Kafka to speak. 

“...Stelle?” 

“Yes, Kafka?” 

Kafka blinks, swallowing against the burn in her throat. There it was again—something tender, something dangerous. She lowers her head, takes one last drag of her cigarette and chucks it to the floor, crushing it beneath her heel. 

“Why don’t we call the cab and get back to my place already?” 

Kafka doesn’t know why she’s doing this.

She’s tired, and she has too many messages in her inbox. There are contracts on her desk, logistics to finalize, and a silent ache in her chest she refuses to name. And yet, she wants to ignore it all for one day.

Her hand moves before her mind catches up, phone in hand, text sent—Would you two deviants like to join me on a little excursion to the aquarium today? Stelle will be joining us as well. She sees the typing dots from Acheron almost immediately. You mean like a double date? Sure, I’d be fine with that.

Stelle shows up in denim shorts and a crop top that doesn’t even try to hide the constellation of freckles along her shoulders. She bounces on her heels when she sees Kafka waiting at the entrance, shifting the strap of her purse, unsure whether to hug her or just smile. 

Kafka raises an eyebrow, “You wore that to look at fish?”

Stelle grins. “I wanted to look cute.”

Kafka doesn’t say she does because she doesn’t need to. Inside, they join Acheron and Black Swan—halfway through arguing about whether jellyfish are horrifying or divine. It’s chaos, as usual. But Kafka’s not really paying attention to them. She’s more focused on Stelle—how she leans in closer, how her eyes keep flickering to Kafka’s lips whenever she speaks. And it’s not because Stelle doesn’t know about what she’s asking, she just wants to hear Kafka keep talking. And against her better judgment, Kafka gives it to her. 

Kafka keeps tells herself it’s a game. A power play. Stelle is twenty-three—reckless, unfocused, bright-eyed in that way Kafka has seen a hundred times in a hundred cities. She’s a bartender with no plans. A girl who plays baseball on Wednesday and video games on a scuffed old console she insists on bringing whenever she comes over to Kafka’s place. 

You said you wanted company, so I brought entertainment.

I meant you, my silly puppy. 

In Kafka’s dreams at night, Stelle remains on top and straddles her with a smug little grin. She turns her cap backwards in a way that makes Kafka’s brain short-circuit, saying something absurd—Galactic Baseballer style—like it’s foreplay. Kafka, ever unshaken in waking life, wakes up flushed and annoyed as she remembers Stelle whispering to her—Guess who’s pitching tonight? I’m about to hit a homerun, baby.

It was never supposed to go this far because Kafka has rules. Relationships are contractual. They involve clear boundaries where she dominates, and she never lets anyone do anything to her. Because she remembers that bite and that hurt. And she doesn’t want to remember it ever again—she doesn’t want to remember Himeko.

But Stelle, with her backwards cap, dog-eared dreams and irritating lack of self-preservation, is a walking contradiction. She’s a mess Kafka doesn’t want to fix—she just wants to keep it. Because Kafka remembers how things ended with Himeko. How desire unraveled into desperation. How her fantasies became too much. How Himeko pulled away, said “I can’t keep up with you,” and then left.

Sometimes, Kafka wonders if that scar is still open. If it’s why her stomach tightens when Stelle offhandedly mentions being pansexual. Himeko had been bisexual. A phobia that exists, a weariness brought on by hurt. 

They’re in a cab that night—after the aquarium and drinks, after Acheron and Black Swan disappear to who-knows-where. Kafka is quiet, gazing out the window, while Stelle scrolls through photos of the day on her phone.

“…Can I ask you something?” Stelle asks her suddenly.

Kafka hums in response.

“Why me?”

Kafka turns to her, one brow lifted. “What kind of question is that?”

“I mean…” Stelle shrugs, “After spending time with your friends today—“

“Children.” 

“What?” 

“Acheron and Black Swan. They’re my children.”

“Uhm…” Stelle scratches her head and continues on, not bothering to comment, “It’s just that. You’re… you know.” She gestures at Kafka like she’s some kind of monument.

Kafka doesn’t answer right away. She’s thinking about how Stelle shuts down drunk men at the bar now without flinching. How she texts Kafka first. How she holds eye contact just a little too long. How, sometimes, Kafka isn’t sure who’s doing the teaching these days. 

And her silence speaks volumes—why Stelle—because she’s not even sure anymore. 

They don’t talk about what changed that summer—a year after they meet, nearly to the date. 

About how Kafka pulls away when Stelle leans in first. About the kisses—slow, hungry, a culmination of months of tension. They don’t talk about the way Kafka touches Stelle like she’s afraid of losing control. They definitely don’t talk about how Kafka doesn’t let Stelle do anything to her that night. Not yet, at least. 

They go on vacation a few weeks later, an entire month of bliss. Kafka remains mum on the reason with Stelle—her needing a break after the entire kill-the-stupid-bitch-IX campaign. Instead, she watches Stelle run around barefoot on the sand, daring Kafka to join her in the water. Kafka pretends not to watch her, like a starving woman at a feast.

Back in Penacony, they try to act like nothing’s changed—but it has. 

Kafka finds herself texting more. She sits through an entire baseball game in sunglasses, while March 7th whispers to Dan Heng—Stelle’s weird lady friend with the ominous energy is back again. March 7th jumps as a crow swoops down from a tree, flies over Kafka’s shoulder and launches itself at the chainlink fence. It caws aggressively in her direction, before taking flight once more. Kafka merely smirks, sipping on her coffee and watches the game. 

It all comes to a head when Kafka comes over to Stelle’s place on a rare occasion. Kafka’s blouse is half-unbuttoned, lipstick smeared from kisses that had gone from playful to desperate in seconds. Stelle is on her knees in pink lace, collar around her neck, when the door swings open.

March 7th stares—screams—then slams the door shut again. Kafka looks at the leash in her hand, deadpanning—My place next time. I’m getting too old for this. And still—somewhere beneath the chaos and the mess, the age-gap jokes and the dreams Kafka won’t admit to—there’s something else blooming. Something terrifying.

Something real that’s so soul crushing and confusing, it almost makes Kafka want to start playing the violin again. 

The kitchen lights are low. The counters are littered with paper—open folders, half-filled contracts, a few notes scrawled in Kafka’s precise hand. A glass of wine sits to her right, untouched, the condensation starting to pool beneath the stem.

Stelle watches her from the other side of the kitchen island, finishing the dishes for the night. The longer she observes Kafka—how still she sits, how long she’s gone without blinking, how the pen trembles faintly between her fingers—the more certain she becomes.

“You’re stressed.”

Kafka doesn’t look up at first. She presses the end of the pen to her bottom lip, then sets it down with a faint clink. Her eyes flicker toward Stelle, unreadable.

“And just what makes you think that?” she asks, voice smooth as ever. Deflection masquerading as curiosity.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Stelle replies, “And you haven’t touched your wine.”

Kafka exhales through her nose, rubbing at her temple. “Perhaps I’ve had these contacts in far too long.”

“Kafka.”

A small smile ghosts her lips. “And even if I was stressed, would you want to do something about it?”

Stelle steps around to Kafka’s side of the island without a word and places her hands on Kafka’s shoulders. She feels the immediate resistance in Kafka’s body—the way her muscles tighten under her fingertips, how she half-turns as if ready to slip away. But she doesn’t move. Then, Stelle slowly pulls her in for a hug. 

“You never ask for help,” Stelle says quietly, thumbs pressing into the tension under Kafka’s shoulder blades. “Even when you’re buckling under the weight of it all.”

Kafka closes her eyes. Her jaw clenches, “I need to be the one holding the leash. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to take it from you.” Stelle leans down, pressing a kiss against the side of her neck. “I just want to hold you.”

Kafka’s doesn’t protest when Stelle pulls away and spins her around on the barstool. Yet, she keeps her legs pressed together as Stelle places her hands on Kafka’s thighs, trying to slide her way between them. As if she were waiting for permission of some kind, a dog pawing at its master’s lap. Kafka threads a hand into her hair—but not to stop Stelle.

“You know what I like about you?” she says quietly. “You always ask how I truly am. Every time you see me.”

Stelle’s eyes crease in concern, but she doesn’t respond. Kafka rests her hand on Stelle’s head a moment longer, her gaze distant, and lets the silence answer for her.

Another moment in time, later that night. 

Stelle doesn’t know what wakes her—maybe it’s the quiet creak of the bedroom door, maybe it’s the shift of weight as Kafka slips from bed. She lies there for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dark, listening. The apartment is silent, but not comfortably so. The kind of quiet that hums with unease.

Stelle gets up slowly, barefoot as she pads across the cool floor, unsure of what she’s looking for. The bathroom light is on, the door closed. She doesn’t bother to knock, she just stands outside and listens to the silence that comes from within.

Finally, she hears the water run. Then shut off. Then silence. Then, the water running again. The minutes pass by in slow ticks and tocks. Stelle’s not entirely sure what she’s waiting for either. 

She lifts her hand to knock—but then the door opens. Kafka stands there, stiff and composed, robe pulled tightly around herself, her hair pulled back with the same precision she applies to everything. Her face is pale, damp around the edges. Her lips are pressed into a faint, irritated line.

“Can’t sleep?” Stelle asks gently.

“I’m fine,” Kafka replies, too quickly. Too cleanly. “Go back to bed.”

“You were in there a while.”

“I just needed to wash my face.”

“You did that before you went to sleep.”

Kafka sighs, her irritation growing, “My eyes were bothering me then. Consider yourself blessed with impeccable vision, but wearing contacts all the time will do that to a girl.”

Stelle nods, slowly. She lets it go, she doesn’t want to push, “All right.” She gestures toward the half open bedroom door further down the hallway, “Shall we get back into bed then?”

Kafka drags a hand over her face and silently shrugs her shoulders, walking past Stelle without another word. Stelle doesn’t get an answer from Kafka, not that night.

But she starts to watch more closely after that.

The morning air bites harder than usual. Kafka walks with her head low, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat, trying to retain warmth. She doesn’t know where she’s going—she just knows she needs to go.

It’s early, but the dream of Penacony is never empty. The city breathes around her, a steady heartbeat that pulses evenly. Delivery bikes cutting through intersections, cafe workers unlocking doors, the sky a dull, steely gray that matches her mood. Every step echoes with the slight ache of effort. She hasn’t yet eaten and hasn’t slept much in the past few days. The sidewalk suddenly feels endless as she continues in her stride. 

Kafka eventually stops, pulling open the door to some random corner bakery. The fluorescent lighting is too bright and the smell of sugar and butter churns thickly in the air. It’s sweet enough to make her throat tighten.

A barista greets her with a cheerful good morning, but Kafka doesn’t look up. She mutters her order—coffee, hot, black—and turns around to take a seat at a small corner table. She sinks into the seat, feeling like it’s trying to swallow her. She stares out the window at her side and the world begins to blur. The barista calls to her a few moments later—her coffee and a croissant lie on a small brown tray. Kafka gestures toward the croissant, she didn’t order this. 

The barista gives a small smile—You looked like you needed something warm.

Kafka sits back down at the table and minutes pass. Maybe twenty, maybe more. She thinks about texting Stelle—then shoves the thought aside with sudden bitterness. She doesn’t want the pity. The gentle patience. The reminders to eat more, to rest. Because she hates it. And more than that, she hates that she’s come to depend on it.

The coffee warms her palms as she sips it, filling her with more bitterness. Kafka’s throat burns as the hot liquid tips down her throat. She stares down at the croissant, golden and soft, smelling like a childhood she never had. She won’t eat it, she knows she won’t. But she sits there with it, picking it apart anyway. In her pocket, her phone buzzes and she pulls it out to observe it—two text messages from Stelle and Acheron—a third that she refuses to confront. 

I know it’s been a long time, Kafka—

She feels like vomiting as the voice in her head sounds crystal clear, too real. She takes another sip of her coffee, turning vicious eyes on the innocent croissant. 

—I just wanted to see how—

“Stop.” Kafka gasps out the words as if she were sitting across from her right now. Red hair, golden eyes. A soft and knowing smile, a glint of irritation in her eyes. Kafka looks up as if she were expecting to see her, but there’s no one there. Just her, the barista, and the never ending spiral of psychosis. 

I don’t fear anything—Kafka once lied to herself.

If she were as fearless as she claimed, that text message wouldn’t have sat on her phone unanswered for three days now. A constant notification that kept reminding her—answer me, answer me, answer me. 

“I have no fear…”

Yes, you do, Kafka… 

…You fear that she too will break your heart. 

Chapter Text

The hum of the bathroom fan filled the space as Kafka stood in front of the mirror.

The soft glow of the vanity lights illuminate her face, casting gentle shadows beneath her eyes. Another night, another nightly ritual. Something about the simple motions of taking care of herself—removing the day’s grime, applying her face masks, rolling her hair—felt comforting in its predictability. It was almost like a reset, even if she didn’t feel quite like herself for some reason.

Stelle leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching Kafka without saying a word. Yet, her presence is warm, not intrusive. It’s late, bordering on that time when late night becomes the early morning. They had just gotten in from Boothill’s raucous extravaganza at the Garden of Eden—and what a night it had been at that.

But in this quiet moment, seeing Kafka in a way that she isn’t used to, it makes Stelle smile. Vulnerable and unguarded, domestic even. This Kafka felt strangely detached from the usual composed, enigmatic persona that she wore during the day.

Kafka reaches for the bottle of eye cream first, dabbing a small amount under her eyes and massaging it into her delicate skin. She moved next to the face mask, smoothing it evenly over her skin with practiced ease. She catches Stelle’s reflection in the mirror and Stelle bit back a smile. She didn’t want to make Kafka feel self-conscious, but seeing her like this—a little less perfect, a little more human—was strangely endearing.

“You never mentioned how much work you put into maintaining this.” Stelle comments, not wanting to disturb Kafka. She just wanted to appreciate the quiet beauty, the softness of this private moment. 

Kafka glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly, but the edges of her lips twitched upward in amusement. “I don’t usually let people see it. Some things are better left unseen.”

Stelle chuckled softly, walking a little closer but still keeping a respectful distance. “So this is your big secret?” She teased, gesturing toward the satin coated rollers twisted through Kafka’s plum-colored hair, “How you achieve the perfect bounce in that ponytail of yours?”

Kafka rolls her eyes, turning around to face Stelle and casually leans against the bathroom counter, “I’m not some glamour queen, you know? It’s practical and it keeps my hair from looking like I’ve been dragged through a windstorm when I wake up.”

“You look pretty cute like this though.” Stelle said, the sincerity in her voice making Kafka’s eyes narrow, “But, I’m sure you’d look even cuter with windstorm bed hair just as well.”

Kafka raised an eyebrow, “You really have no filter, do you?” And yet, she can’t help the smile tugging at her lips. 

“Never with you.” Stelle replied, her voice light, teasing.

For a moment, they just stood there in the quiet of the bathroom, the soft sounds of the city outside feeling distant and faint. Kafka turned back around to look at herself in the mirror, poking at the stray edges of the face mask as it was starting to make her face itch. And yet, in the quiet silence, there was a question on Stelle’s mind. 

“Are you …feeling better by the way?” 

“What do you mean?” Kafka asked, pulling away from the mirror to turn on the faucet and wash her hands free of excess face mask essence. 

“You were in true form tonight as you always are, but…” Stelle shrugs her shoulders, “You’ve been a little stressed… more so than usual lately. 

“Again with this concern for my stress levels.” Kafka chuckles, turning over her shoulder to glance at Stelle, “Why are you thinking about that when you could be standing there instead, making fun of me for all my primping and vanity?”  

“I’d never laugh at you.” Stelle said, almost too quickly. 

Kafka’s expression softened and for the first time in a while, she didn’t look so heavy with the weight of the world. There was something almost peaceful in this ordinary moment. And there was something calming about all of this—about the both of them standing in this soft, unguarded light. Stelle felt like she was being allowed to witness Kafka as something other than the strong, composed woman who usually kept herself at arm’s length.

“Not even after seeing all of this?” Kafka continues to press, her deflection evident as day. 

Stelle shakes her head, “You’re allowed to have your moments, Kafka. Even if they involve satin rollers and …preventive aging measures. Or something.”

Kafka’s smile was small, but genuine nonetheless, “Good.” 

Arlecchino leaves, Boothill returns to the chaotic aether he was birthed from, and Kafka is left in the aftermath considering her options. 

She hadn’t been entirely serious with the subtle threats of blackmail that she had aimed at Arlecchino. No, not entirely. Boothill’s appearance in the office had been timed too perfectly for her to let the chance slip out from under her. She harbored no ill will to Arlecchino, not really. She knew they were evenly matched and actually respected the woman for her work.

But, when Acheron was involved… Kafka had to take precautions. She had to protect her above all else, fashion kingpins be damned. And she would continue protecting her from afar. Just as she had done in ferrying Acheron away from Izumo, or questioning Black Swan on her intentions with the troubled model. Or anyone else that could cause an upset. Because if they did—they would end up just like IX, lying on the cold hard ground at the bottom of the elevator shaft while Kafka sneered, laughing maniacally at her demise. 

But, there had been a myriad of reasons Kafka had been holding off on bringing Arlecchino’s proposal to Acheron’s attention. She could have lied and said she didn’t want to worry Acheron—or be worried for Acheron. Maybe she didn’t want to deal with Arlecchino and all the pomp and circumstance that came along with meeting her. But, that hadn’t been the core reason she had waited so long to bring this up. No, the truth of the matter was… Kafka had been distracted. Completely, undeniably and wholly distracted.  

It comes in the form of a text message. Late one evening when Kafka can’t sleep and she’s halfway through a bottle of red wine. For once, the city outside of Kafka’s apartment has fallen into a disturbing hush. Like insects chirping, or birds crying out at the first sign of an earthen disaster. 

Kafka’s looking over the specifics of Arlecchino’s proposal before they meet to discuss Acheron—the clauses blurring as she skims them, Arlecchino’s initial signature at the bottom looked like blood. After a few addendums and Acheron’s confirmation, everything would be in order. Kafka would have felt settled about the whole thing. 

…But then her phone buzzes on the polished marble surface of the kitchen island. She ignores it at first, too engrossed in her work. But then it buzzes again, pulling her attention away from legalese and fanatical demands, and she begrudgingly picks it up. 

…I know it’s been a long time, Kafka. Is this still your number? 

It comes from an unknown number—who was this? 

I’m going to be in Penacony at the beginning of March for a conference. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. …I was thinking that it would be nice to see you while I have the chance. 

She stared as the final message came through.

It’s… Himeko by the way.

Everything in her stomach dropped. She didn’t breathe, she didn’t say anything. Kafka locked the screen and set her phone face down. Slowly, quietly, she felt as though the chair beneath her was sinking into quicksand. Or like she was a drowning body sinking beneath the ferocious tides of the ocean. Sinking, sinking, sinking. 

Kafka had stared at her phone for what felt like hours. She couldn’t bring herself to respond—what would she even say? That she hadn’t been right since that night Himeko left? That she was still trying to put the pieces of herself back together, even when Stelle remained within the orbit surrounding her heart? That she still sometimes dreamt of Himeko’s voice like a ghost that wouldn’t leave?

The silence that followed the message lodged itself into the middle of Kafka’s ribs, sour and tight. Like the humming of a refrigerator in the kitchen late at night. Something constant in the background, easy to ignore until the room goes quiet enough to hear it again. All the defenses she’d rebuilt began to shift again, like an inescapable erosion of her mind. She hadn’t heard from Himeko in years. Not since the final rupture, pretending it hadn’t hollowed her out.

Kafka reaches for her phone and picks it up again. She stares at the lock screen—Himeko’s messages obscuring the wallpaper of her and Stelle behind it—until her eyes begin to burn from the blue light. Eventually she rises from her seat and walks over to the balcony, opens the door and steps outside. She lights a cigarette and watches the city that surrounds her,  like it personally wronged her. 

Kafka doesn’t respond to Himeko’s messages. Not then. Not in the hours after. Not the next day either. They sit there on her phone, lying unanswered. Taunting her.

Begging her to break.

Kafka remembers the way that Himeko used to make her coffee. 

Roasted, burned down with grit. So strong it felt like it gave you whiplash. It would always wake her up in the morning and Kafka used to swear Himeko had laced it with something. Uppers, she wonders. Had Himeko found Kafka’s stash and sprinkled a little bit of magic white powder into the coffee to give it an extra kick? Perhaps to give her an extra boost when her grueling schedule demanded her attention most. 

Either way, Kafka’s never been quite able to replicate it. She doesn’t know if she’s using too much coffee, if her beans are ground too softly, or if the water is too hot. It’s a secret that Himeko takes with her and Kafka wishes she hadn’t. Because she needs that coffee the most right now. Desperately, scalding her throat and searing her vocal cords. She needs to feel that burn again, she needs to feel alive again. 

That coffee burned hotter than the harshness of any words Himeko left plastered across Kafka’s heart. Kafka could smile and laugh those away. Her target catches her off guard at times. Not because Himeko’s too dumb to catch up, but rather because Himeko always sees through Kafka’s tricks and refuses to play. Kafka had fallen first after all, harder than she ever had in her entire life. 

Himeko doesn’t like the way Kafka always overindulges at work parties, so she stops drinking and hides her little white bags of party favors in secret spots around the apartment. Himeko doesn’t like the roughness of Kafka’s touch, so she doesn’t ask her to submit. Himeko doesn’t like the way that Kafka lies when something is bothering her, so Kafka learns to believe in her lies as truth. Kafka tells Himeko that she only asks for control because Kafka can provide for her. But, Himeko doesn’t need it. She’s not in this relationship looking for what Kafka can provide when she is already whole on her own. 

There’s the contention about sexuality, of tradition and what’s right. Kafka doesn’t care that Himeko’s bisexual. But, she sees the lingering looks from men, the way Himeko laughs after a casual flirtation that won’t go any further than that. Kafka doesn’t consider herself jealous of what a man can offer Himeko. She’s beyond the stupidity of thinking that a bisexual woman would leave her for a man. 

But Himeko believes in tradition and she’s made it explicitly clear to Kafka that she wants to get married. At some point, that is. With her, Kafka questions? Who really knows.

She considers compromising her morals, doing so out of her fear of love. But, Kafka doesn’t believe in commitment. Hopping through relationships like a game of leapfrog. Moving on to the next when the current one is boring and the passion fizzles out. It’s why Kafka does not allow herself to love, why she remained so detached in her dalliances with Acheron. Because the only type of fear that Kafka knows is in relation to matters of love. 

But, sometimes Kafka thinks that she loved Himeko more than Himeko ever loved her. 

And that… was why it was so easy for her to leave in the end.

There was a time when Himeko wanted Kafka to recognize her childhood dreams of becoming a violinist. 

Kafka played for her sometimes, when the mood was soft and the night was calm, no arguments or disagreements between them. Kafka feels silly and a little self conscious when she pulls the violin out of a hall closet and dusts it off. She hasn’t really looked at it since she burned down her family home and took it as one of the only remnants of her past. But, when Himeko smiles warmly at her and says—I want to hear you play—she sets aside all her doubts and obliges her single wish. 

Concerto No. 4 In F Minor, Op. 8 RV 297, "L'inverno" (Winter): I. Allegro Non Molto—It’s always Vivaldi, isn’t it? 

But the music fades away, the warmth draining from the walls of Kafka’s apartment. She listens to classical music still, but she doesn’t want to hear the sound of her own playing. She doesn’t want to hear Himeko clapping and asking her to play something else. This version of Kafka—if only she could have this and only this—things would be okay. A respectable violinist, a virtuoso lauded with praise. Something shiny, something perfect. Bereft of secrets and lies, of anguish and shame. 

Kafka almost destroyed her violin in the aftermath of their breakup. 

And she never played it again after Himeko was gone. 

And so… it comes again, just as it did for the first time when Himeko left. 

Kafka tries to keep up the facade as she always does. Private meetings with Elio about business matters. Ignoring Reca and his inane ramblings. Chastising Silver Wolf for her laziness. Listening to Firefly’s soft requests for fashion advice, wondering if she passes. Bantering playfully with Black Swan and teasing her about the homemade bentos that Acheron keeps sending her to work with. 

But, then one day… Black Swan appears with an extra. One specially made for Kafka. Her eyebrows rise in surprise, noting the sleek, black and polished design, with a singular white butterfly perched on a wine-red rose on the top cover. Black Swan smiles warmly at Kafka as she pushes it across the front desk—Acheron sends her thanks. Kafka’s eyes soften as she looks down at the bento and thanks Black Swan for the gesture. 

Yet… it sits untouched on her desk for the entire day. Kafka brings it home with her, intending to eat is as leftovers—a late meal that combined breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But, it sits forgotten on the kitchen counter. Just as it sat forgotten on her desk during the day. She lights a cigarette and looks at it, before resolving to put it in the fridge and eat it later for breakfast. …She’s just not hungry—there’s too much stress, too much for Kafka to do. 

The next morning, she looks at the bento and closes the refrigerator door. She doesn’t have time to eat. There’s too many things to handle. Too many emails, she tells herself. And anyway, coffee will suit her just fine. 

Kafka buys a fruit salad, leaves it half eaten and forgotten in the break room fridge until it molds and someone throws it out. She picks at a salad during lunch, her appetite waning, the limp and wilting leaves tasting like nothing. Another cup of coffee, a half full cup of water. Her stomach growls and she notices it briefly, before returning to work and ignoring the feeling inside. Her head buzzes, there’s a weary pressure building between her eyes. She goes to dinner with Stelle and orders baked salmon with a side of vegetables, but still—it tastes like nothing. 

Stelle tells her she looks tired, maybe they should pack up the food and go home. Kafka falls asleep the minute they get back to her apartment, collapsing to the bed in an exhausted heap and forgetting to take off her clothes. Stelle opens the refrigerator to put away the leftovers and notices the week old bento that’s sitting on the top shelf. She curiously opens it, wrinkling her nose at the spoiled food. She chucks it into the garbage and sets the container in the sink to soak. Just how long had that been sitting there? Maybe Kafka had just forgot?

She’s just re-centering—Kafka will say. That this isn’t the same thing everyone thought it was. That it wasn’t intention, that it doesn’t count if she doesn’t mean for it to happen. And yet, she works late, sleeps more, eats less. She tells no one, it’s better that no one knows. 

Because that’s the way she wants it.

For no-one to ever know.

January 19th—the start of Kafka’s thirty third revolution around the sun. 

She didn’t tell anyone that it was her birthday. She never did, considering it an inconvenience at best. Kafka didn’t want the exposure—it was another thing that people could use to draw closer than she wanted to. Most years, it passed like any other day—unnoticed and unspoken. She preferred it that way. Clean. Simple. Controlled.

But, Black Swan knew. She had been keeping a quiet calendar of such things, mentally making note of dates of significance for everyone in the agency. It was less about the celebration, and more about the acknowledgment of everyone as a team. We’re a family here. A deranged, unorthodox, psychotic, unhinged and messy one. But, a family nonetheless. The thought alone warmed Black Swan’s heart. 

She loops Acheron in on the date. They should do something for Kafka. She was always helping them out. Always there to take the brunt of the firing squad aimed at them, barely flinching as the shell casings clattered noisily to the floor. Acheron agrees that they should do something as well. Maybe an expensive and lavish dinner somewhere? A private celebration of the occasion? Acheron insists that they should keep the celebration small—Kafka hates surprises. 

So, they decide on cake in the office. Something small to surprise Kafka with. Just them and… Stelle who somehow gets roped in shortly after, lured by the promise of mischief, and the thrill of surprising someone as inscrutable as Kafka.

It wasn’t a grand plan, just a small moment of warmth in an otherwise busy and overloaded schedule. Black Swan sneaks Acheron and Stelle into the agency at some point, and they borrow one of the spare meeting rooms to congregate in. They dim the lights and rehearse nothing. Is Kafka even going to appreciate this kind of thing? Only time would tell. 

When everything was ready, Black Swan sends the message. 

Kafka, distracted and exhausted, barely notices Black Swan’s message as it pops up in the chat app of the workspace software that the agency used. 

Are you free? I need you for a second. 

Kafka dragged her hands over her face in irritation, before typing back. 

I’ll come to the front desk in a second. 

She stood from her desk a little stiffly, rolling the tension out of her shoulders. She reaches into the black pack of cigarettes on her desk and tucks one behind her ear, making a note to smoke it once she got back to her office. Kafka shuffled her feet back into her heels, her feet aching at the soles—her soul—and opened the door to her office. It was late into the afternoon, almost the evening. The agency was emptying out, everyone slowly trickling through the glass entry doors as they finished their work for the day. 

…Everyone except Kafka, of course. 

She makes her way down the hallway and out into the reception area. Black Swan shoots her a bright smile from behind the reception desk and rises to her feet. If she notices Kafka’s weary expression, she doesn’t comment on it. 

“I need to get into one of the meeting rooms but my keycard isn’t working.” 

“…You called me to the front desk for that?” Kafka deadpans, resting a heavy arm on the front desk. Her eyes narrow, seeing right past her fabricated lies of stupidity. Really, Black Swan was above this. What was really going on? “Just go to security and get it fixed before you leave today.”

Black Swan shakes her head, her tone remaining sweet, “I just need you to tap me in for one quick second.”

Kafka shoots Silver Wolf a withering look, “And you couldn’t have asked Silver Wolf for that?” 

“You have the master key.” Black Swan offers. She glances at Silver Wolf, pointedly keeping her head down and ignoring them, and turns back to Kafka with a hopeful smile, “Please? It’s just a little tap and go. I won’t need you for anything more than that. I promise.” 

Kafka sighs in irritation. She turns on her heel a little too quickly and hunches her shoulders as the world seems shakier than it did before. She takes a stiff inhale of air, speaking through clenched teeth, “Let’s go.” 

Her heels click sharply against the floor as she heads for this aforementioned meeting room with the messed up card reader, intent on getting Black Swan out of her hair so she can get back to work already. Black Swan scurries after her, trying to keep pace wth Kafka. Kafka roughly pressed her keycard to the card reader outside and grabbed the handle of the meeting room door, wrenching it open—

—only for the lights to immediately flicker on and find herself covered in rainbow confetti. Party streamers pop and sail through the air in her direction. Kafka blinks, silently coming to a halt in the doorway. While she’s distracted, she feels Black Swan come up behind her and gently grasps hold of her shoulders to usher her inside. 

No one said anything at first. Then, Stelle blurted out, a little too eagerly, “Surprise?”

Kafka stared at Acheron, then Stelle, then down at the small chocolate cake on the table in front of them. She didn’t roll her eyes or make a snide comment. She didn’t smile either. She just let out a quiet breath through her nose, while pinching the bridge of it. 

“You’re all ridiculous.” She said. But, there was no bite in her tone. No upset, or rage. Just the sound of fatigue.

Acheron nodded as if to say she agreed, only smiling softly without words. Black Swan quickly makes her way over to the other side of the table and begins lighting the small assortment of candles on the cake. She rapidly waves her hand in the air, cueing Acheron and Stelle that they should start singing. They start—awkwardly, off-key, and way too slow. Stelle tried to carry the tune, Black Swan hummed along with an airy lilt, and Acheron’s voice was barely a murmur. Kafka stood still through it all, shoulders tight, face unreadable.

When they finished, Black Swan nudged the cake closer over to Kafka as she walked up to the edge of the meeting table. “Go on then. Make a wish.”

Kafka blinked once. Then leaned forward slightly, her hands resting on the edge of the table. She drew in a breath to blow out the candles—and staggered slightly. She didn’t fall immediately, no. That would come in another moment. But, her hands gripped the table a little harder than necessary. She reached for the back of a one of the desk chairs, missing it slightly at first, before grabbing hold of it to steady herself. 

“Kafka?” Stelle asked, already stepping forward.

“I’m… fine.” Kafka murmured, her voice distant. But the next second, her knees gave way, and she sank—not crumpled, not collapsed, not fainting—just slipped down to the floor in a slow, silent descent.

No one shouted, no one yelled. There wasn’t enough time to react. Black Swan murmured—Oh my God—pressing her hands to her lips, as Acheron and Stelle rushed over to Kafka to catch her before she could truly fall to the ground. Acheron wrapped her arms around Kafka’s back and Stelle gently pulled at her arms. Kafka’s eyes closed for a brief moment, a sharp inhale of air, and then her head lolled backward as she actually did faint, falling limp in Acheron’s hold. Black Swan hurried out the room, heading to the break room to go get one of the bottles of expensive mineral water they kept stocked there. The cake sat forgotten on the table, candles still burning with unwavering flames. 

In a moment of silence, Stelle watches Acheron press two fingers to the side of Kafka’s neck as she searches for her pulse. Acheron presses the back of her hand to Kafka’s forehead, then cups her cheek. She readjusts her in her arms, Kafka still acting as deadweight. 

“Her pulse feels normal, if not a little fast. But she feels a little cold to the touch…” Acheron murmurs. Her eyes flicker up to Stelle who looks at her as if Acheron had all the answers to the questions on her mind, “Has she been sick recently?”

Stelle shakes her head. Acheron was trustworthy right? She could tell her about the things that she had been noticing lately, “She… I don’t think she’s been sleeping well lately. She often wakes up for long periods in the middle of the night.” 

“Is she drinking too much?” Acheron asks. 

Stelle shakes her head, “I …don’t know.” 

Before they can continue their conversation, Kafka’s eyes slowly flutter open. She takes one deep, shaky breath and blinks twice. She tries to sit up, to push herself out of Acheron’s embrace, but she’s clearly too disoriented to move. 

“Don’t,” Stelle said, holding her hands out and pushing against Kafka’s shoulders as she tries to stand up, “You fainted.”

Kafka frowned like that offended her. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” Stelle insisted, softer this time. 

Black Swan comes back into the meeting room at that moment, two bottles of water and two protein bars cradled into her arm. She rushes back to the trio, dropping to her knees beside Acheron and sets everything down on the floor in front of her. She uncaps the cold water bottle and holds it out to Kafka to accept, “…Can you hold it yourself? Or did you need one of us to—“

Kafka growls in irritation, wrenching the water bottle from Black Swan’s hand and taking a messy swig. Her jaw clenched like she wanted to say something cutting, dismissive. But she didn’t. The room smelled faintly of burnt wax and sugar, the candles had burned low. Stelle rose slightly on her knees to blow them out, lest the cake be consumed under the weight of hardened wax. No one touched the cake—and for a long time, none of them said anything either. Black Swan tried to give Kafka one of the protein bars, packaging ripped apart and pushed back in offering.  But she just held it in her hand as she continued to take small sips of water. 

As always, it was the small things. The subtle things. But they meant everything.

Kafka gets to her feet soon after, before any of them can stop her. She folds the protein bar up and shoves it into her pocket. There’s a slow, blinking return to consciousness—a narrowing of her pupils against the overhead lights. A flicker of confused irritation passes over her face before her usual mask slid back into place. She brushes away anything that would support her—a helping hand, a worried face. 

“I’m fine.” She says. Her tone is cold and flat. Definitive in stance.  

Black Swan stands as well, staying sharp-eyed and silent. Stelle hovers, wringing her hands together.

“Kafka,” Acheron said lowly, “You—”

“I’m fine.” Kafka repeats, her eyes cutting fiercely into Acheron. Her voice finally returns, the cut is shaper than before.  

She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve, before turning to look at Stelle and Black Swan. She’s just daring them to say anything, to continue treating her like she was fragile. Like she was anything other than perfectly composed. Her gaze flickered briefly to the cake—the candles burned down into nothing but wax, a wish that was never made—and then dismisses it without comment.

“If you’re done with this charade,” Kafka said, voice dry and almost bored, “I have work to finish.”

Stelle opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She closed it again, feeling her heart sink. No one moved, reveling in the absurdity of the moment. Kafka stood there, silently trembling and refusing to acknowledge her collapse. Everything was fine if she just maintained control, ignoring the truth that hung in the air like a heavy weight.

Black Swan’s calm eyes shifted from Kafka, reading her, and then to Acheron, but she said nothing. Acheron shook her head slightly, she already knew Kafka wasn’t going to budge. Kafka took their silence as agreement, so she turned to leave. But, her steps were uneven, the faintest tremor in her hands betraying the lie she was trying so hard to hold on to. As she reached the door, she paused just long enough to address them without looking back.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice sounding impassive, “… For the thought.”

Then she was gone. The sound of her heels fading down the corridor, deliberate and calculated, as if nothing had happened at all. Behind her, the room continued to smell faintly of burnt wax and something bitter no one wanted to name.

Stelle hesitated in the hallway outside of Kafka’s office, her heart racing. 

She doesn’t know if it was from the chaotic turn of events, or from the gift bag currently held in her hand—a brightly colored plushie peeking out from inside. It was a small thing, and she hoped it would be the right gesture. Something simple and thoughtful, something she wasn’t sure Kafka would even like. 

Black Swan stops for a moment when she spots Stelle. Acheron, standing at her side, gives Stelle a small nod of encouragement. Black Swan’s got the cake in her hands, mentioning that she’ll cut slices for everyone to take home later. Including Stelle and the disgruntled birthday girl when she emerges from her cave of seclusion. Stelle thanks her for the gesture, momentarily feeling at peace, before turning her attention back to the matter at hand. She takes a deep breath and steps to the door, gentle knocking, waiting for Kafka to reply.

“What?” Kafka’s voice is muffled, but the sharpness is still there. 

“It’s… me.” Stelle replies, “Can I come in?” 

There’s a moment of silence, a sigh of defeat and then Kafka answers—Come in, Stelle.

Stelle takes another deep breath as she turns the handle on the door and slowly opens it, poking her head inside. She takes a moment to take in the particulars of Kafka’s office—wide and spacious, the floor to ceiling windows, the faint smell of smoke, an accolade or two hanging on the wall. Her eyes slowly move to meet Kafka’s, sitting at her desk and smoking a cigarette, looking pissed. Stelle notes the state of Kafka’s desk, finding it odd that it was so cluttered and messy. She had always known Kafka to carry an unspoken hatred of needless junk. 

Kafka’s eyes are sharp as she keeps them honed on Stelle. She takes a quick drag from her cigarette, blowing smoke in the other direction, “What is it, Stelle?”

The sharpness should dissuade Stelle, telling her—turn back while you still have the chance. But Stelle wasn’t fooled. There was something deeper going on, something she wasn’t sure Kafka would let her help with. But now wasn’t the time to question that, she would have to explore that matter with a tender heart when they were really alone. 

“I won’t stay long and disturb you.” Stelle says, speaking softly as she steps forward and lets the door close behind her, “I just… there’s something I want you to have.” 

Kafka takes another drag from her cigarette, not saying anything. Stelle reaches into the gift bag, her hand tightening around something small and soft. The soft thing was a poor attempt to bring levity into the situation, and she didn’t know if Kafka would even appreciate it—or throw it back at her face while screaming at her to get out. But, it was the best that Stelle could do in the situation. And she would take the fall out, no matter which way it went. 

Stelle pulls something small, plum-colored, white and circular from the bag, holding it between her hands before approaching Kafka’s desk. She sets it down in front of her, watching as Kafka’s eyes flicker down to this… thing … that Stelle had just placed on her desk. Kafka takes another drag, holding her smoke briefly. 

“What… is this?” 

“It’s a cake cat plushie.” 

Kafka’s eyes flicker up to Stelle like she’s lost her mind, “And just what is a cake cat, Stelle?”

“It’s… from this game I play.” Stelle answers, self consciously rubbing at the side of her arm. She points to the cake cat plushie, “They’re these cute little lifeforms that you can make and play around with. Really squishy and adorable and make funny little sounds and—“

“Why have you given this to me?” Kafka interjects, cutting her off.

“Because.” Stelle replies quietly, “This one reminded me of you.”

Kafka stills for a moment as her eyes lower back to the offensively cute cake cat plushie on her desk. With its plum-colored and white pattern, and wide innocent eyes. The little belt around its little tail and the webbing across its cake-shaped …shell? And were those… tiny Pince-nez sunglasses—Kafka’s signature—on top of the plush’s head? 

Kafka ashes her cigarette out and her fingers hover over the plushie, as though trying to make sense of the small, odd gift. Her face softened as she picked it up, her fingertips brushing over its softness. The plush was so eerily similar to her own appearance—but its softness, the roundness of the cake and its cute little face—that looked too sweet for someone like her.

It was such a trivial thing—such an insignificant item. But, Kafka’s heart tightened in a way she couldn’t describe. She sighs, turning the plush over in her hands. For a second, she considered pushing it away, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to. She didn’t know how to respond to the gesture. It was too… thoughtful. Too much.

“…Stelle.” 

“I’ll let you get back to work.” Stelle lingered for a moment longer before taking a step back toward the door, “I know you didn’t feel like celebrating, but… I figured you could use something soft. Something cute.” She smiled, gingerly and full of hope, “I… hope you like it.” 

Kafka stared at the cake cat for a moment, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing her features before she hid it again behind her usual composure. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a little softer than usual. “It’s… cute.”

Stelle’s smile widened, relieved that Kafka didn’t brush her off. “I’m glad.”

There was a pause, a moment of unexpected warmth between them. Kafka turned the cake cat around and settled it next to her keyboard, towards the edge of her desk, “I’ll keep it here.” She said, “She… can watch me while I work.” 

“Make sure to listen to her when she reminds you to take breaks.” Stelle added in, feeling the weight in the room lessen just a bit. 

“I’ll make sure to listen to her when she does.” Kafka responds, not entirely sure why she’s falling into Stelle’s silly little game. 

“Good.” Stelle backed away, her hand brushing against the door in search of the handle, “I’ll… get going then.” 

Kafka didn’t respond immediately, but her gaze followed Stelle as she prepared to leave. She briefly glanced down at the plushie staring back at her with wide eyes. It was a simple gesture, a subtle reminder of the unexpected kindness she had been shown. Her expression softened as she looked at the small, comforting gift. 

Stelle knew Kafka was probably hiding the fact that the fainting spell had rattled her more than she let on. She could feel the weight of the moment, the unspoken understanding, as if they both knew that this small exchange meant something… even if it was just a step forward in a long, slow dance of trust. She stayed there a moment longer, lingering in the doorway, still watching Kafka. The stillness between them was different this time. A little less guarded. A little more… vulnerable. She watched Kafka absently adjust the plushie on her desk, as if it belonged there — as if it had always been a part of the space.

With another breath, her heart skipping a beat, Stelle turned around and left. The gift had been given, and that was enough for now.

As the door closed behind Stelle, Kafka was left sitting in her office, the small cake cat plushie as her new companion. The walls that she had so carefully built around herself had shifted, just a little, just enough to make room for something new. She couldn’t explain why the gesture felt so significant, but it did.

And for the first time in a long while, Kafka allowed herself to sit with it.

Kafka isn’t expecting anyone to be waiting for her when she finally leaves the office that night. 

But she pauses in her slow meander out of the agency, stopping in the reception area, knowing that she is not alone. Her eyes land on Stelle, sitting there on one of the couches, looking completely out of place. The sight of Stelle was a sharp reminder that no matter how much Kafka tried to keep everything under control, she wasn’t as alone as she wanted to be.

“I’m coming with you.” Stelle tells her as she rises from the couch and begins walking over to Kafka. Her tone was firm but gentle, as if it was simply a matter of fact, “Just to see you home.” Just to make sure you’re safe. 

Kafka hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t asked for company—and yet, Stelle’s words hung in the air between them like a quiet challenge. Kafka opened her mouth to say something, probably to dismiss the idea, but stopped herself. She exhaled a breath, her guarded expression faltering. There was a brief silence before she turned slightly, her steps deliberate but not rushed. 

“Fine,” Kafka said, her voice soft but with that unmistakable cool edge. “Come along then.”

Stelle smiled, relief filling her heart, though she kept a subtle distance as she followed Kafka out the glass door.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, the faint hum of machinery filling the space between them. Stelle glanced at Kafka, her expression soft, but with that same worry she couldn’t shake. She felt like she was walking on eggshells around her, unsure of what Kafka needed—or if she even needed anything at all. 

Her hand brushes against the sleeve of Kafka’s jacket, as Kafka lowers her arm after putting her sunglasses on. It was a small movement laden with hesitation. She lifted her arm, her fingers almost trembling as they reached for Kafka’s shoulder, the intent to offer comfort written clearly in her expression. But before she could fully make contact, Kafka stiffened and rolled her shoulder back away from Stelle’s hand. 

“I don’t need that right now.” Kafka said, her voice low but clear.

Stelle froze, her fingers hovering in the space where contact had almost been made. The sting of rejection wasn’t harsh, but it was undeniable. Kafka turned her face away, eyes trained ahead. She wasn’t angry, she wasn’t trying to be cruel—she was simply drawing a boundary—clear lines of demarcation of what she would and wouldn’t allow.  

“Sorry.” Stelle murmured, almost to herself, though Kafka could likely hear her. 

Kafka didn’t reply. There was no acknowledgment that she had heard Stelle’s apology—just the soft click of the elevator descending further.

The bell chimes for the ground floor and Stelle gestures for Kafka to go first, following behind her like a small puppy, looking for something to guard. Outside the building, the evening air felt colder than usual and Kafka didn’t speak as they walked side by side. 

For now, silence seemed to be enough.

The train ride back to Kafka’s apartment was quiet. 

The soft hum of the train creates a low and steady rhythm as it screeches and clacks along the tracks of the subway. Kafka sits beside Stelle, still distant, her thoughts seemingly far away despite her physical presence. Stelle, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if Kafka wanted the space or needed someone near. So, she stayed either way.

When they reached Kafka’s apartment, the silence lingered. Kafka moved with quiet precision as she entered, taking off her sunglasses and slipping off her coat to hang it in the closet by the front door. Stelle followed as Kafka headed for the kitchen, her gaze drifting toward the bag hanging from her shoulder.

“I’ll just… put this here.” Stelle said softly, pulling the tote bag from her shoulder. She sets it down on the counter by the fridge, before opening it to pull out the slices of cake Black Swan had given her to deliver.

Kafka glanced over her shoulder, but there was no interest in her gaze. She was standing at the kitchen island, her fingers pressing lightly into the surface as she breathed deeply. Stelle was used to Kafka’s walls, the way she kept herself closed off. But the space between them felt heavier than usual tonight. Still, Stelle didn’t retreat. She just stood beside the counter, letting the moment linger.

She looked down at the cake again. “Black Swan thought you might want it,” Stelle said softly, “You didn’t get to eat it after all.”

Kafka’s hand was still gripping the edge of the counter, her back straight. It was like she was trying to force herself into composure. Though the way her shoulders tensed gave away that the act of appearing fine wasn’t as effortless as she wanted it to be. Finally, she exhaled sharply, turning her attention over to the slices of cake wrapped in foil.

“I’m fine.”

Stelle hesitates before responding. “I… I know you are. But if you want it, it’s here. Just in case.”

Kafka didn’t say anything else, she just stood there, looking at the cake. She didn’t want it. But Stelle had brought it for her, and that in itself was enough. Stelle stayed where she was, her hands folded in front of her. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Kafka.” She said softly, a quiet promise in her tone.

Kafka gave no response. Her shoulders just slumped, a fraction of her tension dissipating a little. Eventually, Kafka moved, heading toward the living room. Stelle followed, a steady presence behind her. The cake remained on the counter, forgotten for now. 

Stelle sat down on the couch beside Kafka as they both settled into the living room. Stelle couldn’t shake the feeling that Kafka was pulling away. It made her hesitate, wondering whether she should leave all of this alone for the night. But the quiet continued to gnaw at her, the weight of the unspoken words hanging heavier than the cake that still sat on the counter.

“Kafka, can I ask you something?”

Kafka didn’t look at her as she reached over the side of the couch and pulled open the drawer to one of the stands beside it. Out from its depths she pulls her three familiars—a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and an ash tray. 

She bangs the pack against her hand and mutters mechanically to Stelle, “You can open the balcony door if the smoke is too much for you.” 

“Noted.” Stelle comments, but she doesn’t move from the couch. She stares pointedly at Kafka as she slips one cigarette from out of the pack and sticks it into her mouth, “Kafka, why don’t you celebrate your birthday?”

The question was innocent enough, but Stelle could feel the shift immediately—the atmosphere in the room darkening with an intensity that made her second-guess asking at all. Kafka lights the cigarette, her eyes narrowed, her gaze turning cold. She takes a drag from the cigarette, staying silent. Her back stiffens, her jaw clenches. She takes another drag, purposely blowing smoke in Stelle’s direction. Yet, Stelle waits for her response, even when the air thickens in a way that it does before a storm. 

“I don’t need to celebrate it.” Kafka finally says, smoke curling around her as she slowly exhales through her nose. 

“But it’s your birthday.” Stelle states. She didn’t want to push too hard, but something about Kafka’s reaction made her want to understand, “You don’t even seem to want to acknowledge it.”

Kafka’s eyes snapped to her then, the coldness in her gaze like ice. The harshness in her tone made Stelle flinch slightly. “Because… it’s just another fucking day.”

The words hit harder than Stelle had expected, and her instinct was to back off, to stay silent. But she stood her ground, still not entirely sure why she felt the need to press. There was something off about Kafka’s anger. But Kafka wasn’t giving her any room to explore it.

“There’s no need for celebration. There’s no need for any of that.” 

“You don’t think it’s worth acknowledging at all?” Stelle pressed, her voice quieter now, but still with the same curiosity behind it.

“I’ve got enough going on.” Kafka mutters, tapping ash into the tray. 

“People … still care about it, you know?” Stelle counters.

Kafka sees right past the meaning in Stelle’s words, “You don’t need to care,” she muttered. Then, after a moment, she ashes out her cigarette and stands up from the couch, “And I don’t care to be here for this right now.” 

Stelle watches as Kafka heads in the direction of the kitchen, clearly done with the topic. But it wasn’t like she could leave it there, and Stelle wouldn’t. She gets to her feet, following after her. Such a little puppy, never heeding the signs of danger. Ignorant to a fault. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… I just wanted to know.” Stelle frowns, “I just don’t get why you push people away, even when they try to do something nice for you.”

“Don’t… don’t do this Stelle. Not today. Not ever.” Kafka sighs, feeling the most tired she has all day, “I’m not interested in your pity. Or your concern. I didn’t ask for it.”

“I’m not pitying you, Kafka. I just want to understand you. I don’t want to just stand here while you push everyone away. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Kafka finally turned around and looked at Stelle again. Her eyes filled with something more fragile than she let anyone see—vulnerable, but buried beneath layers of ice. “I don’t need anyone, Stelle,” she said through gritted teeth, though there was a hint of something quieter in her tone. Something resigned, almost sad, “It’s always the other way around. People need me.” 

Stelle sighs, unsure of what to say, “Regardless, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving. You can push me all you want, but I’ll stay. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I don’t need you to do anything for me,” Kafka retorts, her voice rising in anger. “I never asked for it. I don’t need it. And I don’t need you standing there acting like you know what’s best for me.”

“Fine,” Stelle said, keeping her voice level despite the frustration. “But you don’t get to pretend it doesn’t matter when it clearly does.”

Kafka let out a growl of frustration, turning away from Stelle and stalking off in the opposite direction. She walked briskly toward the bathroom, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the silence. Stelle pressed her lips together, the urge to go after Kafka bubbling up in her throat. But she didn’t move. Not yet. Kafka’s cold, guarded expression was still burned in her mind. She couldn’t get the image out of her head—the walls Kafka put up, always too high, always too thick.

Eventually she moves, heading down the hallway and toward the bathroom. Stelle stood motionless for a minute, staring at another door that Kafka had put between them. Her chest tightened with frustration, but she fought to keep her voice steady.

“Hey.” Stelle called softly, her tone carefully controlled but raw with emotion. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”

For a long moment, there was no response. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside, seeping through the walls. Then, a quiet rustle from behind the door—Kafka’s presence was still there, but she didn’t say anything. Stelle knew about the walls Kafka had built around herself, the way she hid everything beneath layers barely anyone could breach. But this? This was different. This wasn’t a wall, this was Kafka retreating, trying to isolate herself like she always did when things got too real—too close.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stelle continued, her voice low but unwavering. “I’m not leaving, Kafka. I’m not just going to walk away because you tell me to.”

The silence stretched again, long enough that Stelle began to wonder if Kafka was even listening. But then, the door handle shifted with the slightest movement, like Kafka was considering opening it. Stelle’s pulse quickened. Her breath caught in her throat.

“I’m not going to let you do this to yourself. You don’t have to push me away. Not like this.”

Then, Kafka’s voice came through, muffled by the door.

“Go home, Stelle,” Kafka said. Despite the words sounding cold and sharp, there was something buried beneath them. Something that sounded like a silent plea that had been buried by years of exhaustion and frustration.

Stelle’s heart twisted, but she stood her ground, “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

A sharp, frustrated sigh came from the other side of the door. “Stelle…”

There was another long silence, but this time it felt different. The distance between them was still stretched long, but it wasn’t as oppressive as before. Stelle took a deep breath, gripping the doorframe as she tried to steady herself. The words were stuck in her throat, but she knew she couldn’t leave without saying them. It had been weighing on her for a while now—something she couldn’t ignore any longer.

She cleared her throat softly before speaking, careful with every word. “Kafka?”

There was no response from the other side of the door.

“Kafka. Why… why haven’t you been eating lately?” Stelle asked, a gentle probing, not quite expecting a response. She wasn’t sure if Kafka had even noticed how much she’d been avoiding food, but Stelle had, “I don’t… I don’t mean to pry. I just… I just want to know if you’re okay. If you need… help or something.”

Kafka’s voice came through, cold and guarded. The standard for deflection, “I’m fine.”

Stelle clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She had expected that response—had braced for it. But it didn’t make it any easier. “You’re not fine, Kafka,” she said, her frustration finally breaking through her usually calm demeanor. She paused, letting her words hang in the air between them, knowing that Kafka would probably dismiss her again, “I’m not trying to make you talk if you don’t want to, but… I just want you to know I’m here. You don’t have to keep doing this on your own.”

Another long silence stretched between them, so thick it almost suffocated her. Stelle waited, holding her breath, not sure if Kafka would say anything else. Finally, Kafka spoke, her voice tight, though it was softer than before.

“I don’t need anything, Stelle.”

It was the same thing she always said, but the vulnerability was starting to seep through the cracks. Kafka was always good at hiding it, but in moments like this, it was harder to ignore. Then, the faintest rustle from behind the door, like Kafka had moved—just enough to acknowledge her presence. And even though Kafka didn’t open the door or let her in, Stelle knew something had shifted, even if it was just the tiniest bit.

“You don’t have to talk. But I’m going to sit here until you come out.”

Nothing. But, Stelle can just barely make out the faint, uneven rhythm of breath—quiet, shaky, muffled by a hand or a sleeve—on the other side. Kafka doesn’t cry out loud, of course she doesn’t. She breaks in silence.

On the other side of the door, Kafka sits with her back against the tub, knees drawn to her chest, elbows resting on top of them. Her hands tremble slightly—just slightly—as she drags her fingers across her lower lip and then presses them into her temple like she’s trying to push the thoughts out of her skull. It’s been years since Kafka’s allowed herself to be cornered. She doesn’t do breakdowns, she doesn’t allow mess. So why now? Why tonight? Why Stelle?

Kafka presses the heel of her hand against her eyes. On the other side of the door, Stelle hasn’t moved either. She hasn’t spoken again. Kafka can feel her presence there—still, silent, steady—an alliteration for support. Somehow, still refusing to leave. It would be so much easier if she’d just go away. 

Kafka’s voice cracks as she breaks the silence, “Do you want to know why I do it? It’s for control. That’s all it is. When everything else falls to chaos, or when I’m the cause of it… when everyone starts making demands of me like I’m some machine that doesn’t get to falter—at least this one thing still belongs to me.”

Stelle doesn’t interrupt. That makes it worse somehow.

Kafka exhales slowly, her voice dropping softer. “It’s never been physical with me. More, it is about cultivating a need. Learning to curb your desires, not wanting for anything transitory in this mortal world. Not letting anyone see you have something, because the moment you do… they’ll take it.”

Kafka lets her head loll backwards, as her legs stretch out before her.

“You’re so young,” she murmurs. “You don’t get it yet. You think love is enough, you think persistence earns trust. But you can’t fix a wound you can’t name, and I won’t let you bleed for mine.”

There’s another pause. And then Kafka’s voice lowers to something rawer, almost ashamed.

“I was fine before you. But you make me want things… and I can’t afford to want anything right now.” Another brief pause. Kafka swallows, her throat growing tighter. Her voice nearly disappears, “Because I’m … I’m scared I’m going to fail her.”

Her? Was Kafka referring to herself? Or someone else? 

“I’m scared… I already have.”

The confession hangs in the air. Kafka has no mask here, no pre-written script to follow. Her fingers curl into the fabric of her slacks, nails digging through to keep herself grounded. She doesn’t cry. Not really. But her eyes sting, and she blinks furiously against it. From the hallway, Stelle finally speaks.

“…Then let me fail with you.”

Kafka squeezes her eyes shut. She wants to scream at Stelle to go away. She wants to beg her not to leave. She wants everything and nothing at the same moment—and she doesn’t know how to survive that kind of need. So she says nothing. But the click of the lock is quiet, almost imperceptible—but Stelle hears it.

Stelle doesn’t rush to open the door. Instead she waits for longer than she should, before raising up on her knees and grasping the handle to gently push the door open. Kafka doesn’t look at her as she allows Stelle to open the door. She sits motionless on the tile, arms wrapped around her knees, staring bleakly at one tile near a polished pinky toe. Stelle crawls her way into the bathroom, sitting in the space beside Kafka. She doesn’t reach out, doesn’t touch—not yet. Instead, she leans her back against the tub just close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.

Kafka speaks, her voice sounding dull. “You all look at me like I’m supposed to have every answer. Like I’ve already survived the worst of it and now I’m supposed to be the calm in the storm for everyone else.” Kafka turns her head just slightly, eyes shadowed and hollow. “I don’t want anyone seeing the part of me that’s still in the middle of it.”

Stelle turns to her then, face open, eyes unwavering. “Then let me sit in the middle of it with you.”

Kafka looks at her, and it’s the first time she really lets herself look. There’s no pity in Stelle’s eyes. No judgment. Just quiet, stubborn loyalty. That undying spark Kafka both admires and fears.

“You’re not afraid of how ugly it gets?” Kafka murmurs.

“No.”

Kafka’s voice fractures. “I am.”

Stelle finally reaches over and slides her fingers through Kafka’s hand. Their palms press together, grounding. “You said it’s about control.” Stelle says quietly. “Then let me say this without trying to take any of it from you—I love you. I’m not trying to fix you. I’m just… here.”

The words slip into Kafka like a blade and a lifesaving balm. It’s unbearable, it’s comforting. She wants to hide within herself, wants to turn off the lights and forget this whole day ever happened. She goes quiet, feeling Stelle squeeze her hand gently, knocking their heads together. Kafka thinks about a lot of things in that moment, all of which she’s too tired to even do. 

But the one thing she doesn’t do, is let go of Stelle’s hand.

Chapter Text

The words—I love you—should do something to Kafka, but they don’t. 

At least, that’s the lie she tells herself. A bad habit she picked up from her time with Himeko. Believing in her own lies, that is. 

Instead, Kafka stands in the pale morning light that filters in through the half drawn curtains in the living room and stares down at Stelle lying on the couch, curled on her side under a thin blanket. Her mouth tastes faintly of salt, her throat raw. The air is heavy with silence. Eventually, after a moment of deliberation, Kafka makes her way over to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Stelle awakens to the smell of coffee and Kafka sitting quietly at the kitchen island as she slowly sips a cup. Hearing movement, Kafka turns around to look behind her. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of them say anything.

“Did you sleep?” Stelle asks softly.

Kafka rubs a hand down her face. “Eventually.”

“…I didn’t leave.” Stelle continues, stating the obvious

“I noticed.” Kafka answers, turning back around to take another sip of coffee. “But you also didn’t have to stay.”

“Well, I didn’t listen,” Stelle says with a slight smile in her voice, rising from the couch to stretch her arms above her head, “I figured I should stick around, you know? Just in case you wanted to scream at me some more or something.”

Kafka scoffs, “You’re insufferable.”

“I know.”

Another moment of silence, before Kafka says, “I made some coffee if you want some.” 

Stelle rises from the couch finally and begins walking over to the kitchen, “Think we have time for breakfast as well before you have to be to work?” 

Kafka gives Stelle a withering look as she passes by her and heads for the French press sitting on the counter, “Still trying to get me to eat something?”

Stelle shrugs, but her voice is firm. “Still trying to take care of you.”

Kafka braces her fingers around the mug of coffee,  gripping the porcelain like she needs the anchor. “…I don’t know how to do this.”

“Be taken care of?”

Kafka nods, slowly.

“Then we’ll go slow,” Stelle murmurs as she searches around in the cupboard for a mug. “You don’t have to give me everything. Just… let me in a little.”

Kafka lowered her eyes again. She could command this girl—pin her to the wall with a look, reduce her to trembling mess with a single word. She’s done it before. But now, Stelle is the one disarming her.

“You’re still mine,” Kafka says, because she needs to hear it to still believe it.

“I know,” Stelle replies, voice reverent. “And you’re still in control, Kafka. You always will be. But being in control doesn’t mean being alone.”

Kafka closes her eyes. “And you’ll still stay? Even if I push? Even if I scream?”

“I will,” Stelle says, pouring coffee into a mug. She turns around to look at Kafka, taking a sip. “You don’t scare me.”

And Kafka laughs—not because it’s funny—but because she’s not quite sure she believes her. 

Kafka walked into the agency, feeling the dull buzz of the early morning settling into her mind. She makes her way past the front desk, ignoring the ridiculous banter Black Swan and Silver Wolf were engaged in that morning. She was tired, but it wasn’t the kind of exhaustion she’d actually admit to anyone. Even though a certain person sitting behind the front desk had been privy to it already—and she had better keep her mouth shut about it. 

“Good morning, Kafka.” 

Kafka pauses just briefly to look at Black Swan, the darkness in her eyes hidden behind even darker sunglasses. She doesn’t offer a greeting, but asks, “…Did you put the coffee on yet?”

“No, but I did.” 

Elio’s voice is smooth as he saunters out from the break room, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looks down at his mug and swivels his hand around, watching the tiny spirals of milk spread against the dark surface. His eyes flicker back up to Kafka, voice impassive, but his gaze remains focused and sharp.

“Kafka, a word please?” Elio continues on, “Could you …drop by my office when you have a chance? After you’ve settled in for the morning of course.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Kafka replies, feeling something cold pull straight up her spine up.

“Good, good…” Elio turns on his heel with a curt nod of his head to Black Swan and Silver Wolf, “Carry on then ladies.”

The minute Elio turns his back on them, something darkens in Kafka’s features. Kafka glares coldly at Black Swan, and even though Kafka’s still wearing her sunglasses, Black Swan crumples beneath the weight of her boss’s stare. Black Swan had told him about what had happened yesterday—Traitor. 

Stupid ass meddling children. 

Kafka turns away from the front desk just as she can hear Silver Wolf muttering to Black Swan—The fuck did she do?—and pretends she doesn’t hear Black Swan trying to shush Silver Wolf until Kafka's out of ear shot. She doesn’t care. Let them talk. Let them gossip. It’s not like they had anything worth saying that would change anything about this entire situation. 

Kafka gets to her office and slams her door behind her. She stalks over to her desk chair, roughly throws her handbag into the seat and turns back around—not bothering to settle in like Elio had requested. Instead, she angrily yanks her office door back open and heads to his office. 

Kafka enters Elio’s office without knocking, finding him at his desk and already well at work. The door clicks shut behind her with a soft thud, sealing her in with the familiar clean scent of paper, coffee, and old cologne. Elio doesn’t look up right away. He finishes signing something first—pen gliding across the paper with an effortlessly flourish—before setting it neatly aside on the corner of his desk. Only then did he lift his gaze to meet hers.

“Sit.” It wasn’t a request.

Kafka slid into the chair across from him, crossing one leg over the other, arms folded loosely. Elio studied her for a moment longer, unreadable. Then he leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers together.

“I heard from Black Swan,” Elio said finally. His voice was low and firm. Not gentle, not accusing—just fact, “That you fainted yesterday.”

Kafka’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “She’s overreacting.” Her fingers pulled tightly at the fabric of her shirt, “I’m fine.”

“You said that the last time, too.” Elio said, tone dry but steady. 

Something flickered across Kafka’s face—the faintest crack in her mask before she smoothed it over again. Elio didn’t push immediately, but when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“Is this like before?”

Kafka’s gaze cuts away, settling somewhere over Elio’s shoulder. Pretending to look at him, not meeting his eyes. Elio sighed through his nose, shifting slightly in his seat.

“You… don’t have to explain. You never do. But if it is like before… I need to know, Kafka. Before this gets any worse.”

Kafka’s mouth twisted, like she has tasted something bitter. She wanted to laugh at Elio and his thinly veiled comments of concern, but couldn’t find the breath for it.

“I said I’m fine,” She murmured, softer this time. Less certain.

The lines at the corners of Elio’s mouth deepened slightly, “You’re one of the sharpest people I’ve ever worked with, Kafka. But you don’t get extra points for bleeding yourself dry.” He didn’t push. Didn’t lean forward, didn’t raise his voice. He just sat there, steady as a stone. “You don’t have to do this the hard way.”

Kafka finally looked at him, feel angry with Elio—but mostly with herself, “I’m not—” she started, then caught herself. She stood up abruptly, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles in her shirt, “I have work to do.”

Elio nodded once, “I’m not stopping you.”

Kafka hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before she walked over to the door and grasped the handle.

"Oh... and Kafka?"

She pauses to turn and look at Elio, "...Yes?"

Elio shuffles some papers on his desk, not meeting her eyes, "Happy belated, by the way."

Kafka's gaze softens, before she sighs and lets herself out of Elio's office. The corridor just beyond Elio’s office was quiet. Kafka found herself alone with the hum of overhead lights, the distant sound of high heels, and other conversations occurring behind closed doors. By the time Kafka returned to her office, the only sign that anything was wrong was the slight drag to her movements. Subtle enough that no one would notice. Except for maybe Black Swan—who stayed mercifully out of sight.

Kafka dropped into her chair, shook the wireless mouse to wake her desktop up, and threw herself into her backlog of emails without thinking. At first, it worked—until her vision started fuzzing slightly at the edges. She realized she’d been staring at the same line of text for several minutes without actually reading it.

Her phone began buzzing against the surface of her desk. A message from Stelle—Hope your day isn’t kicking your ass too hard. Then it buzzed again a few seconds later, another message from Stelle—I’m not trying to bug you. Just. You know. I’m here if you need me. 

Kafka stared at the messages for a second longer than necessary, then set the phone face down on the desk without replying. She glances at the small cake cat on her desk, and frowns. She leans forward to grasp the poor innocent plushie, leans over to pull open one of the drawers of her desk, and carefully sets the plushie down before closing it inside. She can't think about Stelle right now. She didn’t have the energy to say something dismissive. She didn’t have the energy to say anything honest, either.

The day continued to drag on in that sluggish, mind numbing way, and when the clock eventually hit seven that night, Kafka pushed her chair back and grabbed her coat. Her phone buzzed again as she stepped into the elevator. Another message from Stelle.

Dinner at your place tonight? No pressure. 

Kafka stared at the text, a tightness building low in her chest.

I’m not really hungry. 

Then Stelle replied back. 

That’s okay. Is it all right if I still come over? 

Kafka stared at her phone as the elevator dinged for the ground floor and the doors opened. She walked out into the lobby, barely acknowledging Gallagher as he wished her a goodnight and exited the building. Kafka stepped out into the cold night air, her phone still in her hand, realizing she hadn’t sent a reply. With a resigned sigh, she responded and pocketed it into her coat.

Sure, Stelle. I’ll be waiting. 

Kafka can hear Stelle’s gentle humming through the slightly cracked door of the bathroom, while she occupied herself with something in the kitchen. 

The bath water was lukewarm and the bath bomb Kafka had thrown in beforehand was nothing more than a fading swirl of color at that point. But, she didn’t care. She didn’t even feel the water anymore. Her hand shook as she brought the glass of whisky to her lips again, the amber liquid burning down her throat with a familiar, cruel warmth. 

Kafka’s mind buzzed, each thought fuzzy and indistinct, tangled in a web of anger, loneliness, and confusion. She could hear her phone as it vibrated against the bathroom counter. The screen lit up, showing that name again—Himeko. The messages were still unanswered, still unopened. Kafka stared at the phone on the counter as it buzzed again, before she pressed the glass back to her lips.

The water around her was cold now. It felt suffocating, like it was closing in on her, holding her in place. Kafka sat the empty glass of whiskey down on the corner of the tub and buried her face in her hands. She had no control over it, no control over the panic that was always seizing up inside of her chest. The weight of everything she’d tried to bury was rising up to the surface once more.

She let out a strangled, broken laugh that felt foreign to her own ears. Himeko. After everything that had happened—after what Kafka had done, what they had become—Himeko was finally reaching out. And it made Kafka’s heart ache in ways she didn’t know how to handle.

“Why?” she whispered, her voice raw. “Why now?”

She could feel the burn of regret rising in her throat like bile, but there was nothing she could do to push it down. Himeko’s words had already shattered the fragile barrier she’d built. And now, all Kafka could do was try not to cry. Cry like she hadn’t in years. Cry like she wasn’t the broken, lost thing she had tried so hard to hide.

Her phone buzzed again and the screen lit up. But, Kafka didn’t have the strength to look at it. She didn’t want to know if there was anything new that Himeko had to say. 

Why, after all this time, was she looking for something that Kafka just couldn’t give?

Kafka walked into the office the next morning, the weight of exhaustion hanging on her like a thick cloak. 

Her eyes were puffy from another sleepless night, barely registering the world around her. She’s wearing her glasses instead of her contacts. Kafka's too tired to indulge in keeping up the facade for today, in keeping with routine. It was like she hadn’t even made the choice. It had just happened—a subconscious slip. 

She walks past the reception desk, barely acknowledging Black Swan’s greeting as she passed. Her mind was still dense with the fog of alcohol. A never-ending hangover that could only be cured by imbibing more. Stelle texts her again—something about have a lovely day, I’m thinking about you—but Kafka hadn’t looked at it. She had barely been able to drag herself out of bed, let alone find the willpower to engage with anyone. She just wanted to get through the day. To go through the motions. That’s all she could do right now.

She made her way to her office without a word to anyone, the familiar scent of cigarettes, coffee, and paperwork hitting her as the door clicked shut behind her. She didn’t even bother to lock it. She didn’t care.

Kafka dropped her bag onto the desk and sat down with a sigh. She leaned back in her chair, her head spinning as she closed her eyes for a moment. She felt like she hadn’t slept in days, though she knew it hadn’t been that long. Her body was aching, every muscle feeling tense and sore. She rubbed her eyes under her glasses, trying to clear the fog, but it only seemed to deepen. Her phone buzzed, but Kafka didn't hear it. She was just… so tired.

The day felt like it was dragging and she hadn’t even done anything yet. She stares blankly at her computer, noticing the never-ending flood in her inbox. She tries to focus and open one e-mail. Something from that gaudy man Aventurine and the shots from his cologne campaign. She types in one word—I—but Kafka can’t focus. All she could think about was how badly she just wanted everything to stop spinning.

For a moment, Kafka wondered how long she could keep this up. How long she could pretend that everything was fine when she couldn’t even keep herself together. How long could she go on not eating. Or sleeping for that matter. 

Her gaze flickered to the window, the daylight streaming in, warm but distant. And for a fleeting moment, she wished she could just leave it all behind—the agency, and all of her mundane responsibilities, so that she could escape into nothing.

But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Not yet.

Kafka’s dropped her bag on the couch, the weight of the day sitting heavy on her shoulders. The apartment was quiet with the weight of a silence that felt too thick. She bristled when she felt her phone buzzing in her coat pocket, and only relaxed when she realized the message was from Stelle. 

Hey, no rush. But, I’m going to swing by a little later, okay? 

Kafka stared at the message for a moment, her thumb hovering over the screen as if she could type something that would make all of this go away. But, she didn’t. Instead, she set the phone face down on the couch and moved over to the balcony on the far end of the living room. She pressed her hands against the glass, her breath fogging up with cold that chilled her from the other side. The lights of the city below were blurred, the sky a deep, fading purple. It was a reminder of everything out there—and everyone she didn’t want to deal with.

She was still standing there when the doorbell rang. Her body tensed instinctively, fingers curling into fists for a second. She didn’t move immediately, lamenting the idea of facing anyone—let alone Stelle—right now. Then it rang again and Kafka stepped away from the balcony and walked over to the front door. Stelle stood on the other side, her hands in her pockets. She smiles gingerly, even though Kafka looks like death, ready to cut her life short with a hidden sickle.

“Hey.” Stelle said, trying to keep her voice light.

Kafka silently stepped aside, letting her in and closing the door behind her.

Stelle steps into the entryway, turning to face Kafka as if she were measuring her. “You didn’t respond to my message.” As if the underlying concern isn't there.

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.” Kafka said, voice flat. She stared at Stelle for a minute, before wordlessly moving from the entryway and heading for the kitchen.

Stelle followed her, her hands still stuffed in her pockets. “You’ve been quiet. I get that you need space right now, but—” She sighed, trying to find the right words. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, you know?”

Kafka didn’t look at her. Instead, she focused on the small things—rifling through the cabinets, the drawers—pretending to find something useful to do with her hands. She could feel Stelle’s eyes on her, patient but knowing.

"I'm fine." Kafka muttered. “It’s just a long day.”

Stelle didn’t buy it, but she let the silence hang for a second. “Okay. But just know I’m here if you need anything.”

Kafka’s shoulders tensed slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

There was a pause, and then Stelle took a step closer, dropping her voice a little lower. “Have you had dinner yet? We could go out and get something if you—”

Kafka’s head snapped toward her, “I’m fine. I told you that already.”

Stelle held her gaze for a bit longer than necessary, before she finally nodded, “No pressure.” She took a step backward, feeling as though if she were to ask Kafka if she wanted company for the night, it would be a big, hard, fat—no. “I’ll… get going then. I’ll let you get some rest, okay?”

Kafka nodded, turning away from Stelle. “That would be for the best.” 

As Stelle made her way back to the door, she stopped at the threshold. “I’ll always be around, Kafka. If you need me, just say the word.”

Kafka didn’t respond, but she could feel her presence lingering.

With a final glance, Stelle left, the door clicking shut softly behind her. Kafka stood in the silence once more, the weight of the room pressing down on her as the sounds of the city outside hummed on. 

Stelle wants to give Kafka her space, but she begins to worry when Kafka doesn’t call or text for nearly three days. 

Stelle is sitting on the couch in her apartment, legs folded under her, watching the clock tick away. She texts Kafka twice at noon, chances calling her at four. On Kafka’s end, the messages stay delivered, unread. Stelle knows Kafka. Knows the way she burns the candle at both ends and then some. But something about this feels different. 

Stelle knows she shouldn’t pry this much, or demand this much out of the older woman when she knows how busy she is. But, Stelle can’t help herself. So she crosses the boundary by calling the agency directly and waits for the shit to hit the fan.

The voice that picks up the phone is crisp, yet soft. She recognizes it immediately as Black Swan, “Stellaron Model Management—this is Black Swan. How may I help you?”

Stelle pulls a throw pillow from off the couch and cradles it in her lap, nervously pulling at the tasseled fringes, “Uhm… hi, Black Swan. This is Stelle.” 

Black Swan pauses, “…Hello, Stelle. What’s wrong, dear?” 

“I was …just wondering.” Stelle begins to chew on the inside of her cheek, “Did… Kafka come to work today? I’ve been trying to reach her for a couple of days, but… she’s not really answering.” 

There’s a pause on the other end, before Black Swan answers, “…She never left.”

And that’s all Stelle needs to hear.

Stelle is sitting on a bench outside the building of the agency, swinging her legs together as she holds a hot chocolate in her hand and looks forlornly at the one beside her—the one she bought for Kafka. 

She’s been sitting outside for an hour now. It’s almost eight and there’s still no sign of her. She tilts her head to look up at the tall skyscraper and notes the myriad of offices that have their lights turned on or off. Like a messed up game of Tetris that’s come to an end because all the blocks are misaligned and just won’t drop. 

Stelle almost gives up, drinking the hot chocolate she bought for Kafka before it turns lukewarm and gross. It tastes like fading hope and building resentment of some kind.

As she rises to chuck both cups into the garbage and prepare to go home, Stelle stops herself. Because she finally sees her. At a quarter to, walking down the steps. Dressed in signature black, sunglasses at night, and a handbag permanently stuck to her side. Kafka wastes no time in approaching her, flying accusingly in Stelle’s direction like a wayward banshee.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Kafka mutters, voice hoarse.

“Black Swan said you didn’t come home.”

“I was—”

“Working?” Stelle finishes for her. 

Kafka blinks. She opens her mouth. Closes it.

“I’m fine,” Same tired words, same tired lies. 

“You’re not.” Stelle says, not unkindly.

Kafka lowers her head. Her shoulders curl in tight, like she’s trying to make herself so small that she might vanish.

“I called you.” Stelle continues on. 

“I was in meetings.”

“For more than twenty four hours, Kafka?” 

Kafka lifts her head, “Deadlines don’t care what time it is, Stelle. I can’t just leave everything I have to do sitting because you call.” 

Stelle’s jaw tightens. “You’re dodging me right now.”

“I’m multitasking.”

“Kafka—”

“For the last time—I’m fine.” Tired, maybe. A little strung out, sure. This was nothing new.

“You’re not sleeping,” Stelle says.

“I’ll sleep when I need to.”

“You say that every time.” Stelle watches her for a moment longer, then steps forward, “Kafka, I don’t need you to tell me everything. But, would you please just let me help you?”

“You are helping. Just by being here, looking all sincere and concerned.” Kafka’s smile is brittle as she pulls away and begins walking, not really caring if Stelle chooses to follow.

Stelle jogs after her to keep pace with Kafka’s fast and quickened steps, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use me as a mirror to hide in.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come.”

“I came because I care about you.”

“And that was your mistake.” Kafka exhales, slow and sharp, as they come to a stop at a crosswalk, “And I can’t stay out here all night talking to you about it.”  

When the light changed, Kafka stepped out first on the pavement. But she stumbles when she feels a firm hand wrap around her arm and pulls her backward. Stelle, yanks Kafka around to look at her, golden eyes boring straight into the fuchsia colored ones hidden by dark sunglasses.

“Why do you keep following me everywhere?” Kafka asks her, her voice trembling at the edges. And yet, she doesn’t yank her arm away.  

Stelle swallows, “…Because you keep walking off of cliffs and pretending you can fly.”

Kafka looks away, “I haven’t fallen yet.”

“No,” Stelle says, her voice low. “But you’re bleeding, Kafka. You think I don’t see it?”

Kafka finally pulls her arm back, but it’s not abrupt. More like she was trying to slowly unravel herself from Stelle, “I don’t want to be saved.”

“I’m not trying to save you,” Stelle replies. “I just want to stand beside you. But I can’t do that if you keep pushing me into the background like I’m just a quiet decoration in your life.”

“Then stop standing behind me,” Kafka mutters. “Walk in front. See how far you get without looking back.”

Stelle shakes her head. “I’m not trying to get ahead of you. I’m trying to keep you from drowning in everything you won’t say.”

Kafka sighs, finally exhausted from this tirade. She takes her sunglasses off and presses the heel of her hand to her eye socket. She glances up at Stelle and sees the frown on her face, the simmering anger in her eyes. Even through all Kafka had put her through in the last week, here she was. Staying loyal, staying faithful. Just like a little puppy. 

“Fine, Stelle.” Kafka sniffs, shoving her sunglasses back onto her face, “Fine. I don’t care anymore. Nothing I say will deter you, so come home with me like I know you want to.” 

“It’s not about detering—“

“Please. No more. No more words.” Kafka says, cutting Stelle off before she can even finish, “Just come. Stay silent and come.” 

Because… she’s tired of talking about this again tonight. 

The morning light crept in through the slats of the blinds, slicing the room into uneven shades of warmth—but Kafka couldn’t feel any of it.

She lies flat on her back, the sheets twisted around her legs, her chest tight with something between dread and paralysis. Her limbs were heavy, every breath scraping painfully up her throat like she was breathing through cotton. Her heart was fluttering—wild and erratic—not fast enough to count as a full panic attack, but just enough to keep her tethered to the edge of one. She blinked, looking up at the ceiling, willing her body to move.

Just get up. You’ve done this a hundred times. Get up.

But she couldn’t. Her fingers curled weakly against the sheets. Her mouth tasted stale. The walls of her bedroom felt like they were pressing in on her, getting closer by the second.

“Stelle?” She called out shakily into the darkness.

It took her a minute before Stelle sleepily inhaled, and lazily rolled over on her side to look at Kafka, even though her eyes were still closed, “Mmm?” She mumbled. 

“Stelle… I… I can’t—” Kafka swallowed hard, “I can’t—my body won’t move.”

Stelle immediately opened her eyes, hurriedly pushing herself out of the sheets, “What?”

“I can’t breathe.” Kafka whispered, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

“I’ve got you,” Stelle murmured drawing closer to Kafka’s side of the bed. She settles her hand on Kafka’s chest like a weight, hoping to still the fluttering sensation of floating away, “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just breathe. I’m here.”

Kafka’s body stayed locked up, tight and trembling—but she closed her eyes, letting herself lean into Stelle’s touch. Kafka’s breaths were ragged, each inhale catching in her throat like broken glass. Her eyes were wide open, pupils blown in the dimness, staring at the space between the wall and the bed like it was about to swallow her whole. She couldn’t get air in. She couldn’t get air out.

Stelle moved her other hand in slow rhythmic strokes over Kafka’s back, “It’s okay,” she murmured, close to Kafka’s ear, “You’re okay. You’re here with me.”

Kafka’s fingers were clutching the sheets so tight her knuckles had gone white. Her jaw was clenched, throat working like she wanted to say something but couldn’t form words.

“I know it hurts, Kafka.” Stelle whispered, still rubbing her back in a slow and steady motion, “I know it’s too much right now. You don’t have to talk. Just try to breathe with me.”

Kafka made a strained sound in her throat, something between a sob and a gasp.

“You’re safe,” Stelle kept saying, like a mantra. “You’re safe. Right here with me. Just breathe—you don’t have to do anything else but breathe.”

It was impossible to determine how long had passed. For Kafka it was starting to feel like hours—for Stelle, a minute or two. Eventually, Kafka’s breath caught on a sob—wet and sharp—and her body lurched. But the air came in, and then she let it out. Another breath and another. It was still jagged, and she still felt wrong—but she was breathing.

“I’ve got you,” Stelle whispered, “I’ve got you, okay?”

Kafka’s skin was hot under Stelle’s hands, slick with the sheen of anxious sweat despite the cool air of the bedroom. She slowly pulled back. Stelle dropped her hand from Kafka’s chest, shifting along with her. Kafka turned her face into her pillow, shoulders drawn tight. Her spine arched like she was bracing for impact—like even the mattress might betray her.

“I can’t—” Kafka’s voice was hoarse, muffled, fractured. “I can’t move Stelle, I—”

“I know.” Stelle’s voice was low, careful. Her thumbs pressed gently into the ridges of Kafka’s tense lower back, circling with a practiced sense of calm. “You don’t have to do anything right now.”

Her hands were slow, steady. Up the curve of Kafka’s spine. Down along her waist. Gentle, rhythmic pressure—not too much. Enough to remind Kafka that she had a body. That she wasn’t floating somewhere too far away to return.

Kafka’s breath hitched. Her fingers clawed the sheets, muscles spasming like a trap ready to spring, “I feel like I’m gonna die.” Maybe she already was.

“You’re not,” Stelle said, soft but firm. She moved her hand back up, massaging at the tensed up muscles in Kafka’s neck, “You’re panicking. Your brain’s lying to you right now and nothing’s going to hurt you here.”

Kafka let out a stuttering breath. Then another. Still too fast. Still shallow.

“Listen to me,” Stelle murmured. “Breathe in slowly through your nose slow. One, two, three…”

Kafka tried. It caught in her throat, but it was something.

“Now out through your mouth. Four, five, six…”

Her ribcage shook, but the air left her lungs. Stelle felt it under her palm.

“Good,” she whispered. “Just like that, again.”

Stelle’s touch never faltered. Her hands kept tracing warm, anchoring paths down Kafka’s back, over the dip of her spine, around the tightness in her hips. Kafka’s fingers slowly uncurled from the pillow beneath her. She turned her head just enough for Stelle to see her eyes—wet and shining, but open. 

For once, in a long time, she felt open. 

Stelle stirred, blinking blearily as she stretched. She doesn’t know how long it’s been since she fell asleep after Kafka’s panic attack that morning, but the winter light is soft and bright, beating down on the windowpanes above her. The sheets beside her were still warm, but empty. Stelle sits up, wondering where Kafka could be. She hears the low murmur of her voice coming from down the hall. Her answer lied in wait.

Stelle gets out of bed, padding out of the bedroom, barefoot and quiet. The voice sharpened as she got closer—tight with irritation—weaving between forced charm and clipped frustration.

“I’m aware that I’m late, but I said I’ll be there in an hour.” Kafka snapped softly into her phone. “I’m not dying, Elio. No, I didn’t forget.”

There was a pause in the conversation. Kafka leaned against the kitchen counter, her hair messily pinned up, puffing rapidly on her third cigarette of the morning. She hadn’t noticed Stelle yet.

“Elio, I’m getting—Yes, I understand the schedule.” Another pause, Kafka scoffed under her breath. “I’ll get it done by the end of the week.” She exhaled, the cigarette’s smoke swirling around her, “I said I’ll be there. I’m coming, alright?”

Kafka went silent again as she listened to Elio harp on—the sounds of a man weighing how much nonsense he was willing to entertain from his first in command.

Kafka blankly flicked ash into the tray, resigning herself to her fate, “Understood.”

She ended the call before Elio could say anything else, tossing the phone on the counter with more force than necessary. Kafka stood still for a moment, pulling  hard on the cigarette, the sizzling of the tip sounding as though it was screaming. 

Stelle leaned against the wall, watching her in silence. “You okay?”

Kafka didn’t jump, but her head tilted slightly. Her voice dropped into something lighter, smoother. “Good morning…” She ashed her cigarette into the tray on the counter, “I hope my … lively conversation with my boss didn’t wake you.” 

Stelle didn’t answer that. She crossed the room and gently touched Kafka’s back. Kafka didn’t move away—but she didn’t lean in, either, “Was that… Elio giving you shit about being late to work today?”

Kafka snorted. “Elio’s always giving me shit. That’s how he shows affection.”

Stelle regards Kafka softly, “You know… you didn’t have to get up. You didn’t have to take that call.”

“I couldn’t sleep anyway so it’s not big deal.” Kafka murmured. “I also didn’t want to wake you.”

“You also don’t have to go into work today if you can’t manage it.” 

“Stelle, would you—“

“You told me you couldn’t move this morning, Kafka.” Stelle drops her hand from Kafka’s back and leans in, wrapping around arms around Kafka’s waist, resting her chin on Kafka’s shoulder, “Now I’m making sure you can’t move.” 

Kafka sighed, forgetting the stress of the moment and laughing lowly. “Don’t do that,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

“Do what?” Stelle asked innocently. 

“Make it harder to pretend I don’t want to stay.”

Stelle leans in and presses a soft kiss to Kafka’s cheek, whispering in her ear, “…Then don’t pretend.”

The train rattled steadily down the tracks, the morning crowd dense and noisy—a low, droning hum of chatter and motion.

Kafka sat rigidly beside Stelle, her arms folded tight across her chest. Her gaze was somewhat hidden behind her glasses, staring blankly at some fixed spot on some businessman’s suit that stood in front of her. Inside, her heart was hammering—a fast, sick pulse beating against her ribs. But from the outside, she looked almost bored.

Stelle would occasionally get her attention. Spouting off some bit about a customer at the bar, or maybe something March 7th had done. Kafka wasn’t really processing the words, just the steady rise and fall of her tone. The walls of the train felt too close. The lights overhead too bright. You’re probably just tired—Stelle said, mistaking Kafka’s silence for something else.

Kafka began to count the seconds between stops, trying not to betray the fact that her entire body was screaming at her to run. When the train finally lurched to a stop at her station, Kafka stood a fraction too fast. Stelle followed, still chatting, still cheerful, her tote bag bouncing lightly against her hip.

The morning air was brisk, but it barely touched the feverish edge burning under her skin. Kafka moved ahead without a word. Focus on the next step. Don’t think. Just a few more blocks. Just a few minutes.

“Maybe after work,” Stelle offered, trying to break through Kafka’s silence, “I can pick you up and we can go back to your place and …watch a movie or something? You look like you could use a quiet night.”

Kafka’s hand flexed minutely at her side and she didn’t answer immediately. At the corner, they waited at the crosswalk. The light changed, and Kafka stepped out first. Her heart was still beating furiously, knotting her words within her throat. She could hold it together a little longer until they got to the agency. She had to.

Before Kafka reached for the door handle of the building she glanced sideways at Stelle, her expression unreadable. Stelle lingered for a few moments longer, reluctant, but knew better than to smother her.

“I’ll check in with you later, okay?” Stelle said lightly, as if it were any other day.

Before Kafka could wave her off, Stelle leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and smiled at the way Kafka stiffened, not quite pulling away.

“Don’t work too hard, boss lady.”

Then she was gone, slipping away with an encouraging smile, and a tiny wave. 

Kafka stepped through the front doors like she always did, trying to remain detached and composed. Unbothered, nonchalant. But, when Black Swan spied the glasses again, no lipstick, and her shoulders slightly hunched like her spine couldn’t quite hold her weight—that alone was enough. 

She passes Black Swan in the lobby without a glance and Black Swan watched her go. Kafka never ignored people—not like that. This wasn’t her usual flavor of veiled detachment, this was evidence that something inside of her had cracked. Black Swan silently goes to brew tea, hoping to steep it so thoroughly that it coaxes the truth from Kafka’s mouth. She arrives at Kafka’s office before Kafka even has time to wake her computer from its sleep. 

“Are you sure you’re supposed to be in today?” Black Swan said softly as she stepped inside, careful not to hover too close. 

Kafka didn’t look up as she observed some folder in her hand, “And just who makes the rules around here again?” 

Black Swan sets the mug down on Kafka’s desk. Kafka reached for a pen that wasn’t there. Her hand hovered, then pulled back. Black Swan clears her throat, continuing the conversation.

“I …could cancel your afternoon meetings if you need me to.” Black Swan continues through Kafka’s silence, “You can go home early and take the time you need to rest.”

Kafka finally turned to look at her. The glasses made her expression unreadable, like she could disappear behind the reflection in the lenses. “Don’t, there’s work I need to do.”

“Kafka…”

“What?” 

“…I already know that Stelle is… but, I’m worried about you too.” Black Swan says finally, “And so is Acheron for that matter. But she respects your space too much to ever say anything directly about the matter.”

Kafka sighs, her fingers curled slightly against the glass of the desk. She doesn’t comment on what Black Swan tells her, instead changing the subject as she always does, “I appreciate the tea… but I’m fine.”

Black Swan watches Kafka for a moment longer, resigning herself to fall back into place. She takes a sharp inhale of air, then softly says to Kafka, “…Let me know when that stops being true.” 

She steps out quietly, leaving Kafka alone in the hum of her own unspoken unraveling.

The tea sat untouched.

The afternoon dragged.

Emails. Contracts. Boring administrative crap.

Kafka stared at the files on her desk, their contents a blur—figures, schedules, Acheron’s new contract printed on crisp paper with Arlecchino’s name in bold at the top. The edges of the paper looked too sharp, like they might cut her if she touched them. She reached for another folder full of papers and her fingers hesitated. So, she rested them on the cover, waiting to pull them back when she was ready. 

But, then there was a buzzing that started in her ears—soft at first—like white noise. Her throat tightened. Breath shallow, chest rising too fast. She shut her eyes—Not now. She could feel the tightness coiling in her spine, in her jaw, and in the dull ache of exhaustion behind her eyes. The slow, creeping sense of her body pulling inward—grasping for control where none existed. 

She took off her glasses and kicked off her heels, trying to loosen the feeling of suffocation. Her hands braced themselves against her desk. Breathe, Kafka. Breathe. She inhaled through her nose—too sharp—then exhaled. Again. Even sitting still felt like too much movement. 

In-between her third attempt at breathing, there was a knock on her door and Kafka flinched, but she didn’t answer it. The knock came again, a little softer. 

“Kafka?” Black Swan?

She swallowed. “I’m fine,” she called out, voice tight.

There was a pause, and then there was no sound. Almost as if they wasn’t anything there to begin with. Was she starting to have auditory hallucinations now too? 

Kafka’s hand curled into a fist. The shape of the world felt wrong, like she wasn’t in her body anymore. She dug her nails into her palm, her hand shaking. She wouldn’t lose it here—not at work. Anywhere but here.

And yet, the panic climbed up her throat anyway. Ice flourished in her ribcage, like the fractals of a snowflake. Her body wanted to fold in, to make her disappear. She pushed her chair back to stand and her knees almost buckled.

They’ll know if you don’t get it together. 

Kafka grabbed her phone off the desk and sank to the floor. She crawled her way under her desk in the way a child would, compact with her arms wrapped around her knees, like she was hiding in a cupboard. Warm, dark, safe. She closed her eyes, her face feeling wet and her hands still trembling. 

Kafka stared straight ahead at nothing. She could cry, but she doesn’t. It’s not grief. It’s not even anger. It’s just pressure—building behind her eyes, between her ribs, in her throat. Like a scream she won’t let out.

The phone felt heavy in her hand, threatening to slip from her palm and clatter to the floor. Kafka stared at the screen with trepidation, thumb hovering over the number under Stelle’s contact information. 

Her breath still hadn’t evened out, her ribs aching with each labored breath. And yet, her hand moved before she could stop it. Because she wanted the feeling inside of her to stop—and there was only one person in this world that could possibly help her with that. 

“Hello?”

Kafka didn’t speak—she couldn’t find the words to make her throat work. She souldn’t explain that her skin felt like it was shrinking over her bones, that the air in her office felt too thick to breathe. That if she saw her own reflection again, she might scream.

“…Kafka?”

Still nothing, no words. She swallowed, her breathing trembled just enough for it to catch in the receiver.

“Hey,” Stelle said softly, immediately switching tones. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. Just stay on the line with me.”

Kafka leaned against the back of her desk, clutching the phone to her ear like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

“I… I can’t breathe.” Kafka managed to stutter out, “I can’t breathe again, Stelle.”

“Where are you right now?”

“At… at work. In… in my office.”

“Then wait right there. I’m … I’m going to come and get you.” Stelle said. The finality and conviction in her voice made it clear this wasn’t up for negotiation. 

“No,” Kafka choked out, “Don’t. You—can’t. I—” Her voice cracked, panic laced into the syllables. “You can’t come here. You can’t. I can’t have people seeing—”

“I won’t come up to the agency...” Stelle murmurs, keeping her voice soft as Kafka continues to spiral downward.

Kafka squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for her to continue. 

“…I’ll wait outside.” Stelle continued. “No one’ll see me, I promise. I’ll be waiting around the corner from the agency’s building, okay? You can take your time. No rush. Just meet me when you’re ready.”

“…I don’t know when that will be.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stelle said. “I’ll be there when it is.”

Kafka’s breath hitched again, but she nodded—despite the fact Stelle couldn’t see it.

“I’ll be waiting with my chariot in tow to take you home. Just take your time, okay?” Stelle added gently, like she was trying to make her smile. And Kafka almost did. 

…Almost.

Kafka sat in the silence of the office for another five minutes after the call ended, then forced herself up off the floor. She hastily stuffed some papers into her handbag and put her glasses back on. She didn’t bother to check how she looked—Kafka wanted to get out of this godforsaken office already. 

When she managed to step outside the office, her heart pounding like a drumbeat in her ears, Stelle was waiting with her back against a cab and her hands tucked into her coat pockets. Just watching and waiting—for Kafka. Just a nod, a cab door opening, and a quiet ride back to Kafka’s apartment together.

The cab bumped along the street, the city’s lights flickering across Kafka’s tired face. She sat slumped against the window, her coat draped loosely over her shoulders. Stelle sat beside her, her knee bouncing anxiously as her eyes kept flickering to Kafka simmering in her silence, and then back to the road ahead. 

The ride had endured in silence and Stelle didn’t push for conversation. Kafka kept her head turned toward her own window, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of her nose. She didn’t bother to fix them. Her hands trembled faintly where they gripped her handbag, knuckles white with tension, but she said nothing. Didn’t move, barely breathed.

The city lights passed by, illuminating shadows in disoriented patches, before slipping away. At one point, Stelle shifted like she might reach out—then stopped herself, fingers curling into her palm instead. Kafka noticed, of course—she noticed everything.

The way Stelle stayed still for her, the way she said nothing at all. It made Kafka’s throat burn. So she tries to find the words to explain herself, even though they remain insufficient.

“I just … I couldn’t stand when I called you.” Kafka said suddenly, voice so low it was barely above the hum of the taxi. Her hand tugged at the sleeve of her coat absently. “I felt like I couldn’t feel anything at all.”

Stelle looked at her, heart breaking a little. “Don’t worry about that now. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

When they pulled up in front of Kafka’s building, Stelle paid the fare and leapt out first, rounding the cab like she was on some kind of urgent mission. Kafka moved slower as she was exhausted, her movements shaky and without focus as she opened the door at her side. As Kafka opened the door and gathered her handbag into her arms, Stelle leaned into the cab to stop her. Without warning, she crouched down, hooked her arms under Kafka’s knees and behind her back, and lifted her out of the cab.

Or—tried to.

“…Stelle.” Kafka didn’t gasp or protest, her voice was utterly flat as she found herself awkwardly half-draped over Stelle’s arms, her legs dragging slightly against the pavement.

“I got it!” Stelle insisted, red-faced with effort, feet staggering sideways as she rammed the cab door closed, “I’m carrying you home, like—like in the movies!”

Kafka just stared at Stelle as she struggled, a breath leaving her in what might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh—or both. “Put me down.” Kafka said eventually, so deadpan it made Stelle huff and giggle all at once.

“But I almost had it!” Stelle protested, trying to keep Kafka balanced without dropping her completely.

“You did not almost have it.” 

“Fine,” Stelle relented, setting her down carefully.

Kafka managed to keep herself upright only by bracing both hands on Stelle’s shoulders. For a second, they just stood there, the winter air curling around them. Then, Kafka’s body tilted awkwardly in Stelle’s arms, as she whipped her around. Stelle grunted under her breath as she picked Kafka up again, her legs half-dangling, half-dragging, as Stelle staggered back a step, gasping under the weight.

“You’re such an idiot,” Kafka said weakly, just watching Stelle struggle, like it was the stupidest thing she had ever seen. But even as the thought crossed her mind, her heart gave a painful, humiliating squeeze. She was also an idiot. An idiot that would continue to deny that she helplessly in love with another idiot.

“GALACTIC BASEBALLER TO THE RESCUE!!” Stelle yelled, her voice echoing off the nearby buildings as she lurched forward, nearly dropping Kafka again and having to readjust with a wheeze.

Kafka froze. Her face burned so fast it made her dizzy. Because she knew that phrase. From her dreams—the steamy one—the one she had barely dared to think about after waking up drenched in sweat, clenching the sheets in her fists. And now here Stelle was, shouting that stupid phrase like some idiot anime hero who was trying to save her. Kafka buried her face in Stelle’s shoulder, trying to hide how red she was turning.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, muffled against Stelle’s jacket. “I’m hallucinating.”

“Nope,” Stelle chirped, staggering heroically toward the building entrance. “This is real life, baby! Galactic Baseballer never lets a girl down!”

Kafka, completely overwhelmed, squeezed her eyes shut and let herself be carried. She let out a helpless, breathless laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

By some miracle—or pure stubborn force of willl—Stelle managed to haul Kafka up the front steps and into the building, still clumsily carrying her like an off-balance bride. Recognizing Kafka, the doorman to the building buzzed them in without another word, barely commenting on the debacle that passed through the hallway in front of him. Kafka kept her face hidden in Stelle’s shoulder the entire time, an uncanny sense of embarrassment overwhelming her. 

Stelle held Kafka in the elevator, and through the long and tortuous trek down the hallway to her apartment when they finally reached her floor. She wheezed, shaking and red faced as Kafka took her sweet time fishing her keys out of her handbag to unlock the front door. When they finally managed to stumble through the door of Kafka’s apartment, Stelle nearly collapsed under the weight of her. She grunted as she staggered over to the couch and dumped Kafka onto it with a theatrical groan.

“There,” Stelle panted, hands on her hips, head bowed as she struggled to catch her breath. “Mission… accomplished! Galactic Baseballer …wins again!”

Kafka lay sprawled on the couch, her hair a mess, her coat half falling off one shoulder, staring up at Stelle with a completely unreadable expression. Quietly, she said, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you.” Stelle beamed, clearly taking it as a compliment.

Kafka let her head loll back against the cushions. She felt her cheeks warm at the sight of Stelle standing there smiling like a dope, “You didn’t have to do all that,” Kafka murmured after a while, “I’m not…” she trailed off, frustration tightening her jaw. “I’m not fragile.”

“I know,” Stelle said immediately, like there wasn’t even a question in her mind. She crouched down in front of Kafka, “You’re the strongest person I know.”

Kafka looked down at her, at that sincerity in her face, and felt the familiar ache bloom again—so much worse than any physical weakness.

“But even strong people deserve someone who’ll carry them when their legs give out,” Stelle said, her voice tinged with a fierce protectiveness Kafka didn’t know what to do with.

Kafka swallowed hard, blinking fast. She hated how much she wanted to cry. She hated how much she needed this. Instead, she reached out with a heavy hand, curling her fingers loosely in the collar of Stelle’s jacket, tugging her closer.

“… Will you stay with me tonight?” Kafka whispered.

“As if you even have to ask.” Stelle replied, grinning—a little cocky, a little shy—before slipping onto the couch beside her and wrapping her up in her arms without hesitation.

Stelle nestled up against her, one arm looped around Kafka’s waist, the other stroking up and down her back in slow, mindless motions. Kafka closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation—the steady breathing, the reassuring weight of Stelle’s body next to hers, the faint scent of her shampoo. 

The couch wasn’t the most comfortable place, but it didn’t matter. Kafka couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this safe. Minutes passed with neither of them speaking. Stelle’s fingers kept moving, feather-light along Kafka’s spine, sometimes brushing her hair back behind her ear. Kafka melted under the touch without meaning to, her body relaxing inch by inch.

“You’re warm.” Kafka mumbled finally, her voice hoarse from exhaustion and the heavy emotions pressing in on her.

“You’re cold.” Stelle said softly, pulling back from their embrace so that she could reaching behind. 

She pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over both of them. She tucked it around Kafka like she was something precious, something that needed to be taken care of. Kafka bit down hard on the sudden lump in her throat. They laid there for a while longer before Stelle tilted her head, her voice dropping low. 

“You know…” She said, a teasing lilt threading into her tone, “…The next time you pass out on me, you should at least warn me so I can train for it. Maybe I can start lifting weights or something.”

Kafka let out a rough, quiet laugh against Stelle’s shoulder, hiding her face. “You’re already doing enough, Stelle.”

Stelle tightened her arms around her, rocking her slightly. “That’s what I signed up for, right? Carrying you when you need it. Being annoying. Making you laugh when you wanna cry.”

Kafka felt something twist deep in her chest—a soft, aching kind of love that made her whole body hurt in a good way. “I dreamed about you, you know.” She confessed quietly. 

“Yeah? What kind of dream?”

Kafka hesitated, then muttered, “It was nothing… I just remember it when you said that stupid—Galactic Baseballer—line. You said the same thing in the dream.”

“Because Galactic Baseball is the shit. That’s the reason I even took up baseball to begin with.”Stelle laughed, “Maybe you’ll watch me play some time? Join in as well?”

Kafka shook her head against her shoulder, smiling despite herself, “I’ve already told you what I think about video games.” She closed her eyes again, breathing in Stelle’s warmth, the lingering scent of outside air clinging to her jacket. 

After a slight pause, Stelle whispered her name, “…Kafka?” 

“Yes?” 

“…I’m not going anywhere, you know? You’re stuck with me as long as you need me to be here.” 

Kafka exhaled, a long, shaky breath. “Good,” she whispered. 

…Because I want you to be.

Stelle moved around the apartment with careful and quiet steps. Switching on a small lamp in the corner, softening the harsh overhead light. She disappears to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water, setting it down on the coffee table within reach, like it was a quiet offering of peace. 

Stelle sat down on the floor near the couch, like she was silently holding a space open for Kafka to exist in, without demanding anything from her in return. For a moment, she thought about fetching another blanket from the linen closet to drape over Kafka—familiar now, after enough late nights here. But, she just sat there with her gaze lingering on Kafka's sleeping form. Eventually she leans forward and pulls the glasses slipping down Kafka's nose from her face and sets them down on the coffee table beside the glass of water. 

Stelle stayed on the floor beside the couch, legs crossed under her, quiet as she could be. She didn’t reach for anything—no phone, no distraction—just letting the space between them settle. She could hear Kafka’s shallow, uneven breaths, the soft rustling of fabric as the blanket shifted with every small movement Kafka made. The apartment was still, save for the hum of the city outside. The silence wrapped around them like a thick blanket, but it was the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty. It felt like a pause, a moment before something was said or something broke.

Kafka hadn’t moved for a while, but Stelle kept watching her. Even when the shadows in the room deepened, when the air grew cooler. Stelle stayed close, but out of reach. She could’ve shifted back onto the couch, could’ve pulled Kafka against her or tucked her in further. But she didn’t. Instead, she sat still, watching the slight rise and fall of Kafka’s chest, the way her body seemed to fold into itself, her face still hidden against the cushions. Eventually, when she realizes that Kafka is actually going to sleep longer than she probably has in days, Stelle rises and grabs her phone from one of the couch's armrests. 

The sliding glass door clicks shut behind her with a soft shnk. Stelle steps onto the balcony, her teeth chattering from the frigidity of the cold night air. The city glimmers before her. Yet all of it is nothing but synthetic starlight. It’s too loud, too fake, for how quiet she feels inside right now.

She sits down in one of the chairs outside—Kafka’s customary smoking chair—and reaches into the pocket of her bomber jacket, pulling out her phone. Stelle unlocks the screen and searches through her recent calls list—scrolling past Kafka’s name—and lands on March 7th. The line picks up halfway through the second ring.

“Hey!” March 7th’s voice is chipper, probably sprawled on her couch. “What’s up? Where are you right now?” She asks, “You ran out of here faster than Dan Heng in six-inch high heels! And you know that’s faster than either of us can manage.” She pauses, “…Or is this about something else? Like… needing help to hide a body?”

“No, it’s not that,” Stelle says, rubbing at her eyes. “Just… I couldn’t sleep.”

“You okay?”

Stelle shrugs, even though no one can see it. “Yeah. Just thinking a lot.”

“About…?”

She hesitates. “Someone I care about.”

March doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, more gently, “Dan’s here, too. Want me to put you on speaker?”

“Yeah, that’s okay.”

There’s the rustle of the phone being passed around, and then Dan Heng’s voice comes in, “Hey, Stelle. What’s wrong?”

“So hypothetically, what would you do if someone you’re close to… started pulling away?” Stelle begins, knowing damn well her two best friends know who she’s referring, “Not really angry. Just… foggy. Distant. Kind of quiet. And they won’t talk about it.”

March 7th chimes in first, “Are we talking friend, situationship, or full-blown mess of the heart?”

“Uh…” Stelle scratches her cheek, “The last one I think?”

Dan Heng, ever the voice of reason, speaks next, “Then it depends. Are they the kind of person who usually hides things?”

Stelle lets out a quiet laugh. “She could win awards for it.”

“What has she been doing exactly?” Dan Heng continues. 

“She… hasn’t been taking care of herself properly. And when I try to ask her if she needs anything, she acts like everything’s fine so I leave things as they are. Until she’s ready to speak that is.” Stelle says, “…Mostly, I think.” 

“You’re doing the right thing by not forcing it.” Dan Heng says.

“But I don’t know how to help if she won’t let me in.” Stelle looks up at the sky, “It’s like she’s halfway gone already.”

“She’s not,” March 7th says immediately. “She’s probably scared. Or ashamed. Or both. I think I would feel the same.”

Stelle closes her eyes, “I’m …just scared she’s slipping into something. Slipping somewhere where I won’t be able to reach her if she falls too deep.” 

“Then don’t try to reach her,” March 7th says. “Just… stay where she can find you when she’s ready.”

Dan Heng continues, quiet and certain. “People like her—they’ve survived a long time by pretending they don’t need anyone. When someone shows up and actually stays, it doesn’t feel safe. It feels dangerous.” There’s silence for a few moments, then he says, “You’re doing better than you think.”

“You think?” Stelle asks, even if she’s not entirely so sure.

“And hey—if she’s important to you, you’re already doing the most dangerous thing.” March 7th continues on. 

“What’s that?” Stelle questions.

“Loving her.” Dan Heng responds.

Stelle smiles faintly, mumuring a soft word of thanks, then she ends the call. She settles her phone back into her pocket and then slouches back into the seat. She watches the lights of Penacony blink and blur until they stop looking like anything at all. Eventually, she slowly careens her head to the side, catching a glimpse of the apartment out of the corner of her eye. 

The lights in the apartment were low, dim enough to make the walls feel farther away. Kafka still hadn’t moved since she’d fallen asleep on the couch. The only sign she was still there—still breathing—was the shape of her under the heavy blankets, the occasional shift of fabric when she adjusted deeper into hiding.

Stelle rises from the chair on the balcony and goes to open the door. She closes it behind her, her hands at her sides, a quiet determination tightening her shoulders. She didn’t call out Kafka’s name, didn’t try to coax her out of sleep so that they could retire to the bed for the night. She simply began speaking, as if Kafka were awake to answer her. 

“I’m going to stay for awhile, Kafka…” She said simply. Her voice was low, steady. There was no answer from Kafka, merely the soft sound of breathing as she slept, “I know you probably hate that. But I’m doing it anyway.”

Stelle waited again, just to see if Kafka had heard her. But there were no words. Just the soft, broken sound of fabric rustling—Kafka’s fingers inching out from beneath the covers, as if reaching for something in her sleep. Stelle walked over to the couch, slowly peeling back the blanket from where Kafka had pulled it over her head. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, brushing Kafka’s bangs away from her face. 

“I’ll be right here, Kafka.” She whispered, gentler this time, “And I promise that I'm not going to leave.” 

Chapter Text

Kafka shifted, an unconscious groan escaping from her as she slowly woke from a heavy sleep. Her fingers fumbled at the side of the couch, pushing herself upright, only to wince slightly as her body protested.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Kafka turned in the direction of the kitchen as she saw Stelle quietly walking into the living and over to the couch with something in her hands. Stelle quietly adjusted the blanket on top of her, pulling it up to cover Kafka’s shoulders more snugly. Stelle bent down and kissed the top of Kafka’s head. She set something down on the coffee table—coffee—before returning to what she was doing in the kitchen. 

Kafka reached up to brush her hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. The apartment feels warmer than usual, even for winter. The air is filled with the gentle clink of dishes being washed and the smell of simmering broth on the stove. Stelle moves easily around the kitchen, humming something tuneless under her breath. She glances over every so often, just to make sure Kafka’s still upright and hadn’t gone back to sleep. 

“I should be doing that,” Kafka mumbles sleepily.

Stelle looks over her shoulder, drying her hands. “Doing what?”

“The cooking, the cleaning. The… everything.” Kafka gestures vaguely, leaning forward to grab the mug of black coffee and takes a cautious sip. 

“You’re still here with me.” Stelle counters, a chipper tone in her voice. “Now that’s everything.”

Kafka snorts softly, but her fingers tighten around the mug. “Somehow you make such a thing sound poetic.”

“Maybe I should add that one to my varied and many talents?”

Kafka snorts, “How are you so …energetic and it’s—“ She takes a quick glance at the clock that hangs above TV on the opposite wall, “—barely 7am on a Saturday? Why are you even up?” 

“Night owl? You know, considering my job and all.” Stelle says with a shrug, “And I should be asking you the same thing. Why are you even up right now?”

“Because I don’t sleep.” Kafka answers, setting the mug back down onto the coffee table and flopping over onto her back, “…Or when I do, it’s because my body gives out first.” She rests her forearm over her eyes with a sigh. “This isn’t a choice. You should know that by now.”

Stelle watches her from the kitchen, then she walks over to the living room and sits down beside the couch, legs crossed, resting her elbows on her knees as she looks up at Kafka. “You didn’t even stir when I put that blanket on you last night. You’re not just tired, Kafka. You’re exhausted.”

Kafka peeks at her from under her arm, eyes narrowed, “And just what are you going to start doing? Start recording how much I sleep and make a chart out of it or something? 

Stelle smiles, “I already did. It’s on the fridge. You’re due for three more hours to hit your daily quota.”

Kafka rolls her eyes, arm dropping away to reveal her tired face, “You’re dangerously good at being sweet. You know that?”

“Only with you.”

Kafka looks at her for a long moment, and then silently says to herself—and that scares me more than it should. Stelle reaches out, gently stroking back some of Kafka’s loose hair. Kafka closes her eyes again, sighing as the motion seems to soothe her. 

“Can I stay here a little longer?” Kafka asks after a while.

“You never have to ask.” Stelle murmurs. “You should know by now that I’m not trying to fix you, Kafka. I just want you to feel safe with me.”

Kafka’s eyes open, hazy and on the verge of sleep, “That’s a dangerous thing to offer someone like me.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

There’s something disarming about how easily Stelle says it. Kafka presses her fingertips to her eyelids, as if trying to hold her composure in place.

“You always do this,” Kafka says eventually, “You see straight through me. As if you already know where all the cracks are.”

“I don’t know all of them.”

“And perhaps that’s a good thing that you don’t.” Kafka inhales sharply, closing her eyes again, “I think I’m going to go back to sleep. Could probably still use it. Those three hours of yours you mentioned, that is.” 

Stelle beams at her, like a puppy excitedly wagging its tail, “Go on then, I won’t disturb you.” 

“Hmph…” Kafka murmurs sleepily, rolling over onto her side and pulling the blanket with her as she goes. 

Later, they sit on the couch, a blanket draped over both of them. Stelle plays some game—something with a twinky looking, blond elf boy and little forest creatures that Stelle keeps making him try to burn on pyres—while Kafka lies with her head in Stelle’s lap, eyes closed, not quite sleeping.

“What do you do when you feel useless, Stelle?” Kafka murmurs eventually, the honesty of her question feeling out of character in that moment. 

Stelle pauses her game, bending down to press a soft kiss Kafka’s temple, “You’re not.”

Kafka stiffens slightly at first—like she doesn’t think she deserves it—but she doesn’t pull away. She opens her eyes and glances up at Stelle as she resumes playing her silly little elf game, “I haven’t been able to focus at work. I haven’t… I haven’t been able to…” 

Stelle licks the corner of her mouth—shit, another broken sword—as she proceeds to run away from some ghoulish looking foe, “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes, you know?”

“Not me.” Kafka’s voice is tight. “I don’t fall apart.”

“Sure you do. Just… with a little more grace than most.”

Kafka laughs quietly, but she doesn’t argue. “Is that what you call carrying me to my apartment the other day? Graceful?”

“Of course.” Stelle replies, “I was the graceless one. Almost dropping you, running into things in my attempt to rescue you.” 

“You did.” Kafka murmurs, her mouth curling faintly at the memory. “Whilst you shouted your nonsense.” 

“I still think I deserve a medal.”

Kafka snorts. “You deserve to be tranquilized.”

“That’s just what villains say to heroes.”

Kafka goes quiet again, the glow from the TV flickers across her features as if she’s miles away. Stelle absentmindedly runs her fingers through Kafka’s hair, untangling a few strands at the temple where her curls fall looser.

“You didn’t drop me until you got me here though.” Kafka says after a while.

“Nope. And I never will.”

Another moment of silence, then Kafka inhales sharply, closing her eyes, “You know, sometimes I watch you… and you move through the world like nothing ever sticks to you. Like you’ve never had to bleed for it.”

“I’ve bled for things too, Kafka. I just don’t carry the wounds in the same way that you do.”

“Yes, but I’m supposed to be the strong one.” Kafka’s voice cracks. “Everyone depends on me to be unshakable.”

“And who told you that being strong means never needing help?” Stelle asks her, pausing the game once more, “Who made you believe you had to suffer alone to deserve love?”

“I …don’t know how to be taken care of.”

“You don’t have to know,” Stelle murmurs. “You just have to let me.”

“But will you still want me …when this dream finally ends?”

“I want you,” Stelle says without hesitation. “Even when you’re bleeding out. Even when you’re angry. Even when you think you’re unlovable. Especially then.”

The silence after that is heavier, but not in a bad way. It’s full of all the things Kafka still doesn’t know how to say, all the pieces of her that she’s afraid to hand over—but that are already sitting quietly in Stelle’s lap. There’s a long silence, warm and oddly tender in the half-dark. But, then Stelle’s hand brushes against the game controller, sending it clattering to the floor. 

The game resumes itself, the elf boy on screen starts screaming as he’s lit ablaze by his own fire and the little forest creature cries about finding their friend—HYAH HUH AAAHHHHH—and Stelle curses under her breath as a game over screen appears. Kafka breathes out a low laugh and tilts her head just enough to look up at her. 

“You know… you’re terrible at this.” 

Stelle grins, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “I’m not playing for the elf, silly.”

Kafka blinks, before her features soften, “Thank you.” she says, almost inaudibly.

The weekend passes in a haze of lounging about on the couch whilst Stelle orders  takeout and slowly prods Kafka to take a bite. Stelle plays video games, Kafka watches and offers her wry commentary about how much Stelle seems to suck. Stelle takes it all in stride—the only reason she’s playing badly is for Kafka anyway. She needs to hear that scathing and critical tone come back to her voice, that light in her eyes that only comes from ripping some poor sod into shreds. And if it had to be Stelle and her less stellar video game playing? Well, so be it. 

And yet, when Monday comes around and the week begins anew… somehow a scene from the previous week plays out exactly as it did once before. Well, almost as it did before. 

Stelle wakes up on Monday morning to find Kafka’s side of the bed empty already. She groggily pulls herself out of bed and shuffles off down the hallway toward the living room, only to stop dead in the archway of the hallway. There was Kafka—pacing, cigarette in hand. She was on the phone, her voice raised in that familiar, sharp tone, engaged with some kind of argument with whoever was on the other end. 

“…No, I’m not doing that today, Elio.”

Stelle paused, her body pressed against the wall as she listened. Kafka’s voice was strained, like she was forcing herself to keep a level head but the pressure was already too much.

“Do I need to remind you how long I’ve been working for you?” Kafka’s words hit harder this time, biting with something far darker than usual. “So, if you want to make demands, you can go ahead and find someone else who can meet your every whim. Because if that is your expectation of me right now, don’t expect it to happen.”

Stelle’s stomach churned. She didn’t know if it was the anger in Kafka’s voice or the underlying exhaustion, but something about the whole interaction made her feel like an intruder, watching something she shouldn’t have. Kafka’s pacing slowed. The silence that followed Elio’s response was cut with something made of ice. 

“Yes, well. I’ll be in when I manage to get there.”

She ended the call with a soft click, tossing the phone onto the couch as if it had burned her fingers. The silence that followed felt suffocating, and Stelle felt herself holding her breath without realizing it. Kafka paused by the balcony with her cigarette poised between her fingers, utterly alone in her thoughts.

Stelle stepped out of the hallway, her voice tentative, careful. “Kafka?”

Kafka flinched slightly but didn’t turn to face her. She took a slow, deep breath, trying to calm herself down before she spoke, as though the earlier exchange hadn’t left her rattled.

“Didn’t realize you were up.” Kafka said softly, a sharp contrast to her earlier anger. She didn’t look at Stelle, instead glancing out the window again, her cigarette still smoldering between her fingers.

Stelle bit her lip, still unsure whether to approach or stay back. “Is everything okay?” 

“It’s fine,” Kafka replied softly, but it didn’t sound like the usual dismissive tone. There was a heaviness in her voice now, a quiet vulnerability she usually kept hidden. She took a drag from her cigarette and shrugged, “I might not have a job by the end of today, but—like I said, it’s fine.” 

Stelle didn’t move, still standing in the archway, unsure if pushing further would make things worse or if Kafka needed to talk.

But Kafka’s gaze flickered to her briefly, then back to the window, before she sighed. “Stelle… I just need some time.”

Stelle nodded, not pressing any further. She could tell Kafka was already pulling away again, retreating into the familiar walls she kept built so high. But at least she hadn’t shut her out entirely. The room fell back into quiet as Kafka took another drag from her cigarette, her posture relaxed but her mind clearly still somewhere else, far beyond the window and the apartment they stood in.

“I… heard you on the phone,” Stelle said, trying to keep her voice light, though she wasn’t sure how well she was doing. “Work stuff?”

Kafka nodded, her expression flat. “Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.”

There was a pause as Kafka took another drag from the cigarette. She seemed lost in thought, her posture still tense, the weight of whatever had happened on the other end of the call lingering in the air between them. Kafka sighed, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. 

“I’m here if you want to talk,” Stelle said softly, “You know that, right?”

Kafka’s eyes finally met hers, and for a moment, the walls that had been so carefully built up around her seemed to waver. But it was brief, and soon enough, she looked away again. “I know,” she replied quietly, a touch of vulnerability creeping into her voice. “I’ll be fine.”

The silence stretched on.

“Did you manage to sleep?” Stelle asks.

Kafka doesn’t look at her. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“I could cook breakfast. Just… something easy. Eggs, maybe. Or…toast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

Kafka slowly turns to face Stelle. Her smile is thin, tired, brittle around the edges, “You’re sweet when you’re half-asleep. But, you’re not my nursemaid.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to be.”

Kafka doesn’t answer, as she walks back over to the coffee table and ashes out the cigarette. She stands up straight, smoothing her shaking hands over her shirt, “I should get going, Stelle. I’ve got meetings. Elio’s already breathing down my neck about this and that. Acheron needs to come in for some fittings soon and—“

“You don’t …have to run.” Stelle slowly insists. 

Kafka freezes. Just for a second, “I’m not running, Stelle. I just need … I need to be working.”

Stelle nods quietly. “…Right.”

And when Kafka leaves, the kiss she gives Stelle hovers right above her cheek, barely gracing the air. She touches her shoulder on the way out, like an afterthought. And when the door closes behind her, the quiet Kafka leaves behind is louder than the silence Stelle finds herself in.

Stelle is sitting on the couch, barefoot and cross-legged, flipping absently through a magazine she brought from work, as Kafka brings over two glasses of wine and sits down beside her. Stelle looks comfortable here, like she belongs in her apartment somehow. And Kafka can’t decide if that comforts her or makes her stomach twist.

“You’re hovering.” Stelle says without looking up, “You’ve been doing it all day.”

“I’m brooding.” Kafka corrects. “There’s a difference.”

Stelle glances up and offers a smile, “Oh, did you want me to sit and brood with you then?”

Kafka forces a smirk. “Depends. You gonna psychoanalyze me if I do?”

“Only if you start monologuing.” Stelle tilts her head to the side, “Is this about work?”

“It’s always work.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything. But I don’t like watching you pretend nothing’s wrong.”

Kafka’s jaw twitched, “I’m not pretending.”

“You’re avoiding,” Stelle said, gently. “Which is fine, but don’t lie about it.”

“I’m …just not ready, Stelle.” Kafka said, “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Okay.” Stelle says with a shrug, pulling her magazine back up to cover her face. 

Kafka balks, caught off guard, “You’re …not going to ask again?”

Stelle shakes her head. “Nope.”

Kafka exhaled slowly, taking a slow sip of wine. She felt something in her posture ease, shoulders sagging as if someone were trying to pull her back down to the ground.

“You don’t have to talk.” Stelle murmured, lowering the magazine slightly with a concerned look in her eyes, “Just don’t try and disappear on me again.”  

It’s nearly 2AM and the apartment is silent save for the hum of appliances and the occasional creak to be found in walls or floorboards. Kafka lies in bed, wide awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her stomach feels hollow, but not from hunger—it’s something else. Shame. Restlessness. The oppressive weight of being seen by Stelle. 

She shifts beneath the covers, careful not to wake up Stelle who’s curled up beside her. Warmth radiates from the younger woman’s body, but Kafka still feels cold. Claustrophobic. Watched. Kafka hadn’t asked for this, but she knew why it was happening. It was love, in the most maddening form—overprotective and constant. Her mind reminds her of the fear, like the cold kiss of a ghost placed upon her skin. 

Quietly, she slips out of bed. Kafka’s fingers tremble as she slides open the closet door as quietly as possible. Her shoes—black flats she doesn’t need to lace up—go on quickly. No socks, no time. She glances over her shoulder one last time to look at Stelle, before stealing out of her bedroom and heading down the hall towards the living room. The light above the stove in the kitchen casts long shadows along the counters, almost as if something were reaching out from the shadows to grab her.

This isn’t about running. Not really. It’s just… Kafka needs air. She needs to be somewhere where she’s not being watched. Not fussed over like she’s glass that’s about to crack. She (she won’t say that accursed word—loves) Stelle. She knows that. But right now, love feels like pressure.

Kafka hesitates before unlocking the door, her pulse fast and fragile. She glances behind her one more time before flipping the locks on the front door and pulling it open. Kafka steps out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her without a sound.

Sometime later, as the sun comes up, Stelle feels the coldness beside her as the duvet dips around her back. She frowns and rolls over, finding Kafka’s side of the bed to be empty. She listens for the sound of her voice in the apartment—but then it twists with something akin to fear. Nothing, all she hears is silence.

Stelle gets out of bed, sleepily scrambling to her feet as she goes to check the bathroom, the living room, and finally the kitchen. She even considers checking Kafka’s study, but she already has a feeling she won’t find her there either. 

Stelle stands in the middle of the living room, running a hand through her sleep-tousled hair.

“God dammit.”

The apartment is dim when Kafka returns. Her body is flooded with exhaustion and everything just feels… off.  

She tries to shake the remnants of sleep deprivation and fatigue off, reminding herself that she was home. But her surroundings don’t align with the usual comfort she finds in space. Her vision sharpens, and the first thing she notices is the soft light of the kitchen and the kettle quietly humming. An irrational anger surges through her, causing Kafka’s head to spin. Her eyes dart around the room as the anger rises, her hands clenching into fists, digging her nails into her palms.

It doesn’t matter if Stelle has been here this entire time. It’s the fact that she’s in her space again, making this warmth—this impenetrable kindness—feel like an invasion. She never asked for this. She never asked for someone to be here and take control the situation. A breath escapes her in a hiss, the anger continuing to bubble up quickly. She stalks into the living room, just as she hears Stelle’s soft and quiet footsteps echoing down the hallway. 

“Kafka.” Stelle’s voice is sharp like a whip. It cuts through the space between them.

Kafka pulls her coat from her shoulders and throws it at the couch, whipping around angrily to look at Stelle, “Why are you still here?” 

“You’ve been gone all night.” Stelle says, keeping her voice calm—like she’s willing to let Kafka be mad—as long as she lets her help. “Is it so wrong that I stayed up to make sure you were all right when you got back?” 

Kafka’s jaw tightens as she glares at her, “I didn’t ask for that.” Her voice cracks slightly, but she forces the words out. 

She’s mad. Furious. Kafka’s heart pounds because this is simply too much. Too much concern. Too much care. Too many things she can’t deal with. But, it’s easier that way. It feels safer to be this irrationally angry, especially when she’s been cornered like this. However, Stelle stays quiet, nothing but stillness, unwavering concern. Stelle just looks at her for a long time, not moving, not saying anything else. She just… watches. The frustration bubbles up, the want to push her away, to scream at her for being too kind when she doesn’t deserve it

…And Kafka can’t stand it.

“You know, this thing you’re doing… you think it’s kindness. But it’s not. It’s pressure disguised as care, and I’ve had enough of that for several lifetimes.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel cornered, Kafka.” 

“But that’s exactly what you’re doing. You come into my space, ask questions I haven’t answered in decades—“ She spins around and plops down on the couch, rummaging around in her discarded coat for her cigarettes and a lighter, “And want me to talk about my feelings—all the fucking time.” 

“Kafka.” Stelle’s voice is low, imploring.

“Is this what you want? A real peek behind the mask?” She struggles to light the cigarette as she shoves it into her mouth, her hands shaking as its finally lit. She takes a long drag and exhales, coughing at the sudden burn in her throat, “I don’t need this, Stelle. I don’t need you fixing me. I don’t need to be made soft just because you want someone to love you back the way you expect.”

“That’s not what I want,” Stelle says, quietly. “I just want you to stop hurting yourself.”

“I’m not—” Kafka stops. Her mouth opens, then closes. She scoffs, low and bitter. “So this is it, then? You think I’m just another project to fix?”

“No, I think you’re someone I love who’s hurting. And I’d rather be here sitting within that mess with you than letting you do it all alone.” Stelle said, slowly walking toward the couch, “…You’re doing that thing again. Where you get mean because you’re afraid I’m seeing too much of you.”

“Oh, spare me,” Kafka snapped, her voice turning sharp as she takes another drag of her cigarette, “I’ve let you see plenty, haven’t I? More than anyone else gets. I’ve let you stay. I’ve let you touch me. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I don’t want the parts of you that you find acceptable,” Stelle said. “I want all of it. Even the pieces you think are broken.”

Another silence fell, heavy and splintered. When Kafka finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost brittle, “You don’t understand what it’s like to be… looked at, Stelle. To be unwrapped. To have someone like you stand there and act like it’s fine that I’m…” She trailed off, the word never landing.

“You think I look at you and see something ugly, but I never have.”

“You should.” Kafka barked, fury rising up from her throat like bile. “You should hate me for lying. For hiding. For pretending I’m something I’m not. You should walk away.”

“I’m not walking away just because you’re struggling. That’s not love.”

“Don’t… don’t call it that.”

“Why?”

“Because if it’s love…” Kafka said, her voice beginning to shake. Yet, she can’t finish her sentence—Because if it’s love, then you have power. And I don’t know how to survive if I’m not the one in control.

And that was the truth, wasn’t it? Naked and violent and desperate. The silence afterward was fragile, stretched taut between them.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Kafka says instead, not wanting to delve deeper into her soul, “But I will. That’s what I do. I ruin things.”

“Then let me stay long enough to prove you wrong.”

“No.” Kafka shakes her head, “You of all people don’t have to prove something like that to me.”

She reaches over into the drawer of the stand at her side and pulls out the ashtray to set it down on the coffee table. Kafka ashes out the cigarette and gets to her feet, grabbing her coat as she does.

“I’m going to sleep. Don’t disturb me.” She mutters as she brushes past Stelle and makes way for her bedroom.

And the door closes and locks before Stelle even has a chance to reply.

Kafka emerges from the bedroom some hours later without saying a word to Stelle. She doesn’t even acknowledge her presence on the couch. Her coat was already on—the same one she always wore when she wanted to disappear into the city’s shadows at night. 

Stelle pretends to stay immersed in the soft buzz of the game on screen, but she was already tracking Kafka’s movements. She watched her head for the credenza by the door and pause. Then Kafka opened one of the drawers, a longer pause ensued. She watched Kafka’s hand hover over the empty dish that usually held her keys and that’s when Stelle put the controller down.

“They’re not there.”

Kafka doesn’t turn. Her fingers hovered like she was still considering whether to pretend she hadn’t heard.

“Where are my keys, Stelle.” Not a question, but a statement or a demand.

“…I hid them.”

“You hid them?” Kafka asked finally, voice turning cold.

Stelle stood slowly, “I’m not trying to trap you. But if you walk out right now, I don’t think you’re coming back.” Her eyes creased in worry, “…And that scares me Kafka.”

Kafka turns, her lips pressed into a flat line. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“No,” Stelle said gently. “But I do get to care.”

Kafka slowly stepped away from the credenza, swaying slightly on her feet, “You think this is about you? That I’m doing this at you?”

“I think you’re drowning.” Stelle’s voice was soft but unshaken. “And I’ve never seen you like this before—and I’m worried. We all are.”

Kafka didn’t respond. She folded her arms tight across her middle, like she could hold herself together if she just squeezed hard enough. Stelle stayed where she was, giving her space, her own heart rattling in her ribs.

“You can be mad at me,” She offered. “Hate me. Whatever. But I’m still not giving you the keys.”

Kafka stood there for a long time, considering how to break their impasse. Then, quietly, she shrugged her shoulders and dropped her arms to her sides.

“Fine.”

She turned on her heel and walked back into the bedroom, no more fight left inside. Just tired, complacency after the final straw. Stelle watched Kafka wordlessly as she walked down the hallway, somewhat baffled that an argument hadn’t ensued after such a bold action. From the bedroom, she heard the muffled sound of a a coat dropping to the floor, the slight creak of the bed, and then… nothing. 

The silence that followed was unsettling. The kind that made every little sound ring louder—Stelle’s own breath, the faint whir of the game console idling on the screen, the wind rushing against the windowpanes. She stayed still, waiting, just listening. Stelle eventually forced her feet to move and peered into the darkness of the hallway. The bedroom door was cracked open, so Stelle decided to take the shaky first step. 

Kafka was curled on her side on the bed, half beneath the blanket, hair splayed out across the pillow like spilled ink. Her back was to the door, and she didn’t move when Stelle stepped inside. Stelle hovered for a moment, unsure if she should say something. Do something. So, she sat at the edge of the bed, but Kafka didn’t acknowledge her.

“You don’t have to talk,” Stelle said softly, her hands folded in her lap. “I just want to be here.”

A brief pause to gather her thoughts.

“I know this isn’t really about the keys.”

Kafka’s hand tightened slightly around the blanket, pulling it higher up over her shoulder. Stelle shifted slowly, pushing herself along the bed until her back pressed against the headboard. She stayed quiet, letting the quiet stretch again.

“You’re not a burden,” Stelle said. “Not to me.”

Finally, barely audible and muffled by the blankets, Kafka said, “You shouldn’t say that.”

“I mean it.”

“You don’t know what you’re taking on.”

Stelle reached out slowly, placing her hand on Kafka’s side, “I don’t have to know all of it. I just have to show up. That’s all I want to do right now.”

Kafka’s breath hitched again. But she didn’t move away. Instead, she whispered, “You’re stubborn.”

“You’re worse,” Stelle replied softly.

Stelle’s hand stayed gentle on Kafka’s side, her thumb moving in slow, absentminded strokes against the curve of her waist beneath the blanket.

“Do you want to eat something?”

Kafks buried her face into the pillow, mumbling flatly, “I want alcohol.”

“That’s not food,” Stelle gently reminded her.

“I know.”

“I could make soup,” Stelle offered after a moment. “Something warm.“

Kafka gave a soft, bitter laugh into the pillow. “Do you think soup’s gonna fix this?”

“No,” Stelle said quietly. “But, I think feeding yourself is a way of staying alive.”

Kafka exhaled sharply—like it stung. Then softer, almost too low to hear, “…I don’t want to be alive right now.”

“Kafka…” Stelle’s voice never lost its gentle lilt, “Then I’ll hold that weight for you. Until you do again.”

Kafka didn’t answer. She just lay still, staring at the wall, her body coiled tight as wire.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Stelle said after a while, voice soft but firm. “Making soup.”

She gave Kafka one last, slow stroke down her side before slipping off the bed, giving her space, not expecting anything. Just a hand extended, should Kafka finally decide to take it.

A silent promise that she wouldn’t leave.

“…Kafka?” Stelle’s voice filtered through the wood, gentle as ever. “I made that soup.”

No answer.

On the other side of the door, Kafka sat with her head bowed, elbows propped on her knees. Her hands cradled her head like it was too heavy for her hold up on her own. Her stomach churned with something sharp and sour, but it wasn’t hunger. It was shame. It was the quiet scream she couldn’t voice. The knot of things she couldn’t explain.

Stelle’s shifted behind the door. “I can leave it outside. You don’t have to talk.”

Kafka slowly raised her head to glare at the door. The soup—Stelle had probably made it from scratch. None of that instant premade crap from the supermarket. And, Kafka hated how that thought made her ache. Hated how that thought pulled at the part of her that wanted to live, that wanted to be cared for.

She whispered, barely audible even to herself—I don’t deserve it. Then louder, sharper, “Go away.”

But Stelle didn’t. Of course she didn’t. After a moment, Kafka heard her set something down—ceramic on wood, a soft clink of a spoon beside it. And then footsteps, slowly retreating. Kafka let her head drop back into her hands, wrists trembling slightly, with the quiet scent of something warm waiting for her just outside the door. She hears Stelle come back a few seconds later.

“I brought water.” Stelle adds as she sets the glass down gently on the floor. Stelle shifts once more, the rustle of her clothes audible as she slides down the wall and sits outside of Kafka’s bedroom door, “You know… I used to do this with March sometimes. The ones you think are the happiest people? Sometimes …they’re the ones who end up being the most depressed.” She says, “She’d lock herself in the room and cry and I wouldn’t know what to do, so I’d just… sit there. And tell her about dumb things. About work. About what Dan Heng cooked. Whatever came to mind.” She lets out a breathy little laugh, awkward and dry. “I don’t really know what I’m doing right now when it comes to you, Kafka. But… I think you’re supposed to know that you’re not alone. And… that’s the most important part.”

Kafka doesn’t speak. Her fingers curl along her cheeks as she slowly lifts her head to look at the door again.

Stelle waits a few seconds longer before continuing, “I know you’re trying so hard to be strong. For everyone, maybe for me… even though I know I’m probably driving you insane. But even you have to put it down sometimes, right? You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to cry.”

Another bout of silence.

“I’m not going anywhere, so… take your time. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” Stelle pauses, her voice growing lighter, “I brought my Switch after all. Maybe… we can do something different? Maybe you can play if you want. To take your mind off things or something. …Or not. But, I’ll just be in the next room when you’re ready.”

Kafka exhales and then she presses the heel of her palm to her mouth to stop the sound that tries to crawl up her throat. She sits on the edge of her bed, shaking, surrounded by everything she’s kept locked inside her own chest for years. And outside the door, warm and unrelenting, is Stelle—quietly waiting.

And then it was like something inside her snapped and she cries—hard.

It wasn’t elegant or restrained. It was ragged and uneven and ugly—the kind of crying that made her shake, made her chest convulse, made her nose run and her throat burn. The kind of crying she hadn’t done in years. Maybe not since she was a teenager, maybe not since Acheron almost died on her, maybe not since Himeko left. She doesn’t care.

She reaches behind her, trying to find something to stifle the sound. Her hands claw uselessly at a pillow, trying to bury her face into it to muffle the sound. But, it didn’t work. She only cried harder. The sounds of her gasps growing heavier.

She didn’t even know why she’s crying right now. It just hurt—somewhere too deep to name. The fear, the pressure, the exhaustion. The hunger in her stomach and in her soul. The unbearable weight of being seen and cared for and loved. Kafka had always been in control. Of her body, her image, her voice—her name. But now she couldn’t stop sobbing long enough to pretend she had any of that left.

Kafka cried until her throat was raw and her face was hot and swollen. Until she couldn’t feel anything but the heat of her hand clutching desperately against the place she hadn’t known was still aching.

…Her heart. 

The next day passed in a strange, quiet rhythm—a silence stitched with tension—and Kafka’s deliberate avoidance of every attempt Stelle made to reach her. 

She didn’t say much at all, giving Kafka her space, but still watching her like you would a skittish cat. But even without words, her presence was firm, always nearby and never crowding. Waiting for Kafka to come back from wherever she was retreating inside herself.

It started at breakfast. Stelle had gone to work that night, bringing groceries with her in the morning when she returned. She cuts up a small fruit salad for Kafka and places it outside her bedroom door along with an iced coffee. Stelle leaves it there, while she sat nearby scrolling through her phone. When the call of sleep eventually comes for, Stelle goes and retrieves the bowl of fruit and puts it in the fridge to eat later. The coffee, however, is gone. 

Stelle wakes up later in the morning to find Kafka pacing around the apartment, rifling through the drawers of the credenza, opening and closing various closets—she was trying to find the keys. When she spots Stelle watching her from the couch, Kafka froze.

Kafka glares at her—You didn’t put them somewhere stupid, did you?

Stelle only blinks, sleepily mumbling—Define stupid.

Kafka rolls her eyes, shutting her bedroom door with a huff as she leaves the open space of the living room and kitchen. Stelle falls back to the couch and closes her eyes. Yet, even still, she can’t help the mischievous smirk spreading across her face. 

Stelle wakes up later in the afternoon to the murmur of Kafka’s voice coming from her office and the sound of traffic on the streets below. She inclines her head toward the hallway, briefly hearing things like—I’m not coming in for a few days—and—No, I don’t know how long. I’m forwarding all my mail to you. Deal with what you can, I’ll handle the rest later. Hmmm, just who could she possibly be on the phone with so late in the day? Stelle rubs at her chin, before shrugging her shoulders. A mystery for later, perhaps? 

Stelle makes lunch—grilled chicken sandwiches and with a small side salad. She sets a plate outside of Kafka’s bedroom door again. Kafka leaves the sandwich uneaten, with the salad cleaned from the plate. For dinner, Stelle makes a simple tomato pasta—but she changes her tactics this time. She doesn’t set the food outside of Kafka’s door, instead, she waits in the kitchen. Change your battle tactics—Stelle whispers to herself as she sprinkles a generous amount of Parmesan cheese on top of the pasta. She may be the ferocious little Kitty Kaffy, but you are the Slippery and Sneaky Stelle. Bait her, make her come to you.

And just what was Stelle’s purported paradigm shift? Banging a spoon against the back of a saucepan as if it were a gong, whilst proudly shouting, “Hear ye, hear ye! Dinner is served!”

Silence. 

Stelle continues, undeterred. She bangs the saucepan a little harder, “HEAR YE!” She shouts, knowing damn well that Kafka could hear her, “This is a SUMMONS TO DINNER THAT WILL NOT BE IGNORED!”

Again, more silence. 

Stelle furrows her upper lip, her face growing red as she continues to bang on the saucepan, “HEAR YE, FIENDISH KAFKA!” She bangs the pan in tandem with her words, “YOU. HAVE. BEEN. SUMMONED.”

Stelle hears the slow whine of a door on its hinges and the slow shuffle of feet in slippers. Kafka appears at the corner of the archway to the hallway, wearing her glasses and looking fed up. She places a hand on the wall and glares at Stelle. 

“What… the hell are you doing?”

“Sit down.” Stelle says, as she sets the spoon and saucepan down on the counter. 

Kafka blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sit.” Stelle said, her voice quiet but resolute.

“I don’t remember agreeing to this level of aggression.” Kafka crossed her arms over her chest. “You really think ordering me around like some kind of prison guard is going to change anything?”

“I’m not going to fight you,” Stelle added, still seated. “But I’m not going anywhere, either.”

Kafka stared at her for a long moment, then turned on her heel without a word. She locked herself in the bedroom—again. But, Stelle didn’t follow. Instead, she quietly removed the plate from the table, wrapped it up, and set it in the fridge. Just in case.

As the sun dipped low behind the city skyline, Kafka stood behind the closed bedroom door with her back to it, hands clenched at her sides. This was starting to become unbearable. The feeling rose in waves, thick and hot behind her eyes. She wanted the control back, but Stelle wasn’t letting her have it this time. 

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Stelle finds Kafka sitting at the kitchen island at 5AM when she gets back to her place after her shift from the bar. 

She’s smoking a cigarette, her hair falling over her shoulders in plum-colored waves. She looked like she hadn’t slept, but also like she didn’t want to be alone either. Kafka taps the cigarette against the ashtray at her side, then reaches for her mug of coffee to take a sip. She doesn’t even look up when the front door opens and Stelle walks into the kitchen, standing there, just watching her. Kafka flicked her lighter, staring at the flame, then shut it and set it down on the counter. 

“I haven’t … been fair to you, Stelle.”

Stelle raised an eyebrow, waiting for Kafka to continue. 

“I don’t do well with being the center of things... things like this that is.”

“…I noticed.”

Kafka meets her gaze for a second too long before veering away, “I didn’t mean to worry you and I apologize for that. For… the things that I’ve said. Or the things that I’ve done… and keep doing. That night when I snuck out … things just got away from me.”

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m managing.”

“Are you?”

The question lands gently, but Kafka stiffens. “I woke up today, didn’t I? That’s a start.”

“Getting out of bed in the morning is always the hardest part to starting the day.”

Kafka takes another drag from her cigarette, her eyes rising to look at the ceiling, “I don’t know… why I’m like this. I… I tried—or rather—I keep trying. I tell myself I’m past the worst of it. That… I’m in control and I can manage everything as it comes. And then… this comes back like a fucking tide and I can’t stop it. 

“Do you mean… not eating?”

“I mean everything.”

Stelle moves closer to where Kafka is sitting at the kitchen island, her voice patient and warm. “Thank you for telling me, and I’m glad you let me know. You don’t have to manage it alone, you know?”

“I don’t even know how to let you help.” Kafka’s laugh is quiet and sharp, twisted with self-loathing. She sighs, raking a hand through her hair, before using it to gesture to the plate in front of her, “…I made you breakfast by the way.”

Stelle looks down at the plate to find a lopsided, overcooked egg sandwich. The bread is charred to beyond recognition, singed completely black. It was almost like Kafka had doused the entire thing in oil, taken a flamethrower to it and called it cooking. 

Stelle blinked, looking at the blackened mess on the plate, “…It’s burnt.”

“I know.” Kafka replies, “I’ve never been much of a cook if I’m being honest.”

Stelle smiled a little. “You trying to kill me?”

“Only a little.” Silence stretched between them as Kafka stared at her cigarette. She taps it against the ash tray again, “I wanted to say sorry, I just didn’t know how.”

Stelle picks up the sandwich, wincing as translucent egg white leaks out, and burnt toast flakes off and falls to the plate. She grimaces, not sure if she wants to eat the atrocity made with hope for forgiveness and a deranged sense of love. She smiles at Kafka, as she takes a sip from her coffee. 

“Say it like this,” She opened the charred sandwich, bits of bread flaking off as she moved the burnt flaps of bread together as if it were talking, “I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult, Stelle. Please forgive me. Please stay here with me and love me tenderly like I so desperately need.” 

Kafka looked at her with a twitch of a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

Kafka said nothing. But she didn’t deny it. She takes a drag from her cigarette, averting her eyes. 

“You know, you should eat something as well.” Stelle says softly.

Kafka clicks her tongue, “You’re being rather insistent for someone who knows how many secrets I keep. Aren’t you afraid of pushing too hard?”

Stelle steps closer, her tone unwavering. “No. Not with you.”

“Brave.” Kafka murmurs, draining her mug of the last of its coffee. 

“You know, Kafka… you do this thing where you let the performance carry you until you’re too far in to admit you’re starving. And I don’t just mean food.”

Kafka’s eyes slowly flick up to look at Stelle.

“You’re not fooling anyone. Especially not me.” Stelle takes a deep breath and takes a bite out of Kafka’s culinary disaster. She hides her grimace as she chews through the confusing swirl of textures and tastes in her mouth. She swallows forcefully, before waving the deplorable sandwich at Kafka, “Why don’t you take a bite?” 

Kafka’s jaw tightens. Her pride wars with something else—but in the end, she leans forward and takes the bite from Stelle’s hand. Slowly, almost begrudgingly, she chews… and then promptly spits the food back out on the plate. 

“Good LORD—“ Kafka hacks, covering her mouth with her hand, “How in the world did you stomach a bite from that?”

Stelle braves another bite of the sandwich, and feels as though the corners of her vision were going white. She stifles a cough, “…Because you made it with your love?” 

“If my love tastes like that, please shoot me and put me out of my misery already.” 

Stelle coughs again, setting the sandwich down on the plate and avoiding the spot where Kafka had spit her portion of the sandwich back out. For a while, they don’t say anything else. The kitchen falls quiet but warm, the burnt and half-eaten sandwich sitting between them like some form of a truce. Then, in a moment of lightness, Kafka decides to ask Stelle the million dollar question.

“Stelle?”

“Yes?”

“…Where the hell did you put my keys?”

Stelle laughs gingerly, “As if I’d ever tell you. Haven’t you realized by now you’re on house arrest?”

Kafka blinked, slow and wary. “You’re …not serious.”

Stelle nodded her head as she began undoing the buttons of her coat. “Completely serious.”

Kafka arched a brow, mustering some of her usual dry edge. “You planning on chaining me to the radiator?”

“No.” Stelle smiled faintly and leaned onto the counter to take Kafka’s hand in her own, “Emphasis on the rest in arrest.”

That nearly got a laugh out of Kafka—nearly. Instead, her gaze dropped to their joined hands. She didn’t pull away, but her shoulders were stiff.

“You’re tired,” Stelle said. “And you’re not going back to the office tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. You need sleep. And food. And me.”

“I already called to tell them I’d be taking a few days off.” Kafka scoffed under her breath, eyes glassy. “But it looks like that might be longer now seeing as you’re now my warden.”

“No,” Stelle said. “I’m your bratty but devoted girlfriend who’s decided to use her powers of charm and mild manipulation to keep you in bed long enough to remember how to breathe.”

Kafka let out a sigh, “This is ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but it’s still happening.”

Kafka didn’t protest, chuckling under her breath, “You’re a menace, you know that?”

Stelle leaned into her. “One hundred percent.”

Kafka tilted her head to the side, studying Stelle in that sharp, haunted way she sometimes did—like she was trying to memorize the warmth in her before it disappeared. “Okay,” She said quietly. “Fine. House arrest.”

Stelle grinned. “I’ll make more coffee.”

Kafka caught her wrist as she moved to pull away. “And stay.”

Stelle came back immediately, threading her fingers through Kafka’s. “Always.”

Kafka reaches out, fingertips brushing Stelle’s wrist. The gesture is tentative, like she was testing the weight of her own vulnerability. Her thumb lingers there. She wants to say something—something real—but the words catch on the back of her throat. Her chest feels tight, like she’s failing in slow motion. She wants to let Stelle in.

But she doesn’t know how to unlock a door she’s spent her whole life trying to keep shut. 

Kafka had just started to doze off again when her phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then a third time—this one longer. The call buzz.

Kafka groaned without moving. “Ignore it.”

“You sure?” Another buzz had Stelle reaching across the expanse to grab Kafka’s phone from the nightstand. 

Kafka cracked one eye open. “…Is that work?”

Stelle peeked at the screen to see Odette flashing across the top of it, “I… think so?” 

“Everyone always asks where’s Kafka, but no one ever asks how’s Kafka.” Kafka muttered as she sat up, snatching the phone out of Stelle’s hand and answered it on speaker without thinking. “What!?”

“What a lovely morning voice, Kafka. Raw, irritated, and vaguely homicidal.” Black Swan softly cooed from the other end, “Is this a bad time?”

“Yes,” Kafka snapped, raking a hand over her face, “It’s a horrible time. What do you want?”

“I simply had to inform you that—“ 

“Let me take care of it,” Stelle murmured, motioning for Kafka to hand her the phone. As Black Swan rambled off about schedules and some shoot involving Acheron, Stelle cleared her voice and interjected, “…Black Swan?”

Black Swan pauses mid-tirade and adjusts her tone accordingly, “Oh? Stelle? Good morning, dear. You’re there too?” 

“Yeah, uh…” Stelle scratched the side of her face, “Now isn’t a good time. You should… maybe call Kafka a little later? She needs rest.”  

Black Swan pauses, before saying, “Understood, Stelle. I’ll call back a little later when she’s feeling more like herself.” 

Stelle feels like she can hear the wink in Black Swan’s voice as the line goes dead. Kafka drops her hand away from her face as Stelle lies back down beside her and presses a kiss to her temple. “Sleep. I’ll guard the phone.”

“…You’re pushy.”

“You love it.”

Kafka sighs through her nose and lets her eyes close. She doesn’t argue.

She doesn’t need to.

The phone rings again an hour later, its sound slicing through the quiet of the room. Stelle looks at the name on the screen—Peaches. Who the hell was Peaches? Frowning, Stelle’s eyes briefly flicker over to Kafka, before swiping her finger over the screen to answer it. 

“Hello?” Stelle begins, “Who is this? Because… this is the … Kafka-Isn’t-Here-Right-Now automated receiving… message automat—“

“Stelle.” Acheron’s voice comes through, clear but tinged with concern. Oh. Peaches was Acheron. 

“…Acheron?”

“You don’t need to explain, I already heard Kafka’s taking some time off from Mo—Black Swan.” She clears her throat, “I’m just calling to see if there’s… anything she needs. Or perhaps, you need?” Then quieter, “How is she?” 

Stelle’s throat tightens. She hesitates, watching Kafka’s peaceful and sleeping form. She rises from the bed, shuffling off quickly to the hallway as she continues the conversation, “She’s just … she needs some time off, Acheron. She’s not feeling well.”

Acheron’s tone shifts, frustration beginning to rise. “She hasn’t been feeling well for awhile now.”

Stelle rubs her forehead, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. “She’s… she’s been resting, I promise. But, I think she needs some space from everything right now.” Stelle lets out a breath, “She’s dealing with some things—personal things. She’ll come around when she’s ready.”

There’s a pause, the quiet on the other end stretching long enough for it to be palpable. “I should have called earlier.”

“It’s okay…” Stelle says, “I think she’ll be happy to know you called at all.”

Acheron goes quiet before she says, “I’ll stop by with Momo in the evening with something for her.” 

Stelle bristles, “Wait, Acheron. I don’t think—“

The call ends, and Stelle stands there for a moment staring at Kafka’s phone. She sucks in air through her clenched teeth and sighs, dropping the phone to the bed as she returns to the room. But more importantly—

“Who the hell is Momo?” Stelle wondered aloud. 

Kafka stirs with a soft sound, brows pinched as her eyes flutter open. She blinks a few times, disoriented, before turning her head to find Stelle standing beside the bed looking confused. She blinks slowly before asking, “What time is it?”

“Late enough,” Stelle answers gently. Then, after a pause, “Acheron just called.”

That earns a flicker of emotion across Kafka’s face—quick, unreadable. She props herself up slowly, running a hand through her tangled hair. “What did she want?”

“She was checking in. Said she was worried about you and whatnot.”

Kafka exhales through her nose, the line of her mouth tightening. “Of course she’s worried.”

“She didn’t seem to know where you were.” Stelle adds, “I didn’t tell her anything specific. Just that you needed space.”

“She doesn’t even know where she is half the time.” Kafka presses her palms into her eyes. “She always assumes the worst.”

“She’s not wrong to worry.” Stelle says quietly.

After a moment, Kafka mutters, “Thanks for getting that.” She doesn’t meet Stelle’s gaze. “I … really don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.”

“I know.” Stelle’s voice is soft. “But you’re still talking to me.”

Kafka finally looks at her, a small smile unfurling over her face, “Yeah. I suppose I am.” 

In the evening, the apartment is quiet and Kafka’s fallen asleep again. Her phone is face down and silenced on the nightstand, where Stelle left it after intercepting the last of the morning chaos. Stelle is on the couch, curled up with a book she hasn’t processed for the last twenty minutes. She keeps listening—just in case Kafka stirs or calls for her. Just in case the day starts trying to take her away again.

And then, there’s a knock on the door. 

Stelle listens for it again—then another knock comes a little louder this time, accompanied by the ringing of the doorbell. Stelle curses under her breath, getting to her feet and sliding barefoot across the room to the front door. There would be hell to pay if someone awoke the lion sleeping so contently in its den. Stelle checks the peephole, before opening the door just enough to peer out. 

Black Swan is standing on the other side in a long lavender coat, carrying a paper gift bag that’s filled with something warm and healing. Behind her, Acheron is leaning against the hallway wall, a bulky scarf covering her face, watching the two of them from afar. Stelle feels wary as she glances from Black Swan to Acheron.

“She can’t come to the door right now.” Stelle tells them, “She’s sleeping.”

Black Swan tilts her head with a practiced look of angelic patience. “And yet her calendar remains tethered to the waking world. We only mean to deliver, not intrude.”

“You knocked twice and rang the doorbell.” Stelle counters. 

“We brought food.” Acheron says, motioning for Black Swan to hand her the gift bag. She pulls out a furoshiki wrapped bento and holds it up for Stelle to observe. She looks down at the bag, then up at Stelle, “This one is for Kafka. There’s one in there for you too.” 

Stelle shifts in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame, “…Thanks?” 

“And I also made this.” Black Swan says, holding up a small container of something with dried herbs and tea leaves inside of it, “She’ll want to brew a hot cup of this when she wakes up. It’s my own personal little home-brew, I’m sure she needs to detox after all.”

Stelle accepts the bag wordlessly as Black Swan and Acheron stuff the bentos and tea leaves back inside, and Acheron hands it to her, “Thanks… I’ll make sure she gets them.” 

Black Swan glances at Acheron, wordlessly looking at her—as if the two of them were communicating telepathically. She turns back to Stelle, “That’s all. Just make sure to send our love as well. We’ll have to catch her another time then.” 

Stelle nods her head, “Just… call ahead before you do.” 

Black Swan hums warmly, “Take care of her, Stelle. And yourself as well.” And then turns on her heel to begin walking to the elevators further down the hall. 

Acheron lingers briefly, staring down at Stelle’s bare feet, and then looks up to meet her eyes, “The tea might be bitter… but it’ll be good for her.” 

“I’ll try and get her to drink it.” Stelle affirms. 

Acheron’s lips twitch like she might almost smile, then she turns and follows Black Swan without another word. Stelle closes the door on the two of them and returns to the kitchen. She quietly puts the bentos Acheron made in the fridge and sets the mysterious dried tea leaf concoction on the counter. Stelle glances at it for a moment, then shuffles back off to the living room to resume her position on the couch.

Outside in the hallway, Acheron and Black Swan walk in silence, heels clicking and sneakers squeaking faintly down the long corridor of Kafka’s apartment complex.

Black Swan finally sighs, feeling wistful. They reach the elevator and Black Swan presses the down button, “Do you really think she’s resting? Or is she rotting in bed?” 

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate us stopping by either way.”

“Yes, but she’s not letting us help her.”

“Perhaps,” Acheron mutters, “But she’s letting her help and that’s what matters.”

Black Swan hums to herself as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Acheron reaches down to grab her hand, pulling her inside. Black Swan looks over her shoulder just as the doors begin to close.

“I suppose… that’s a start.”

Kafka wakes slowly, feeling groggy and disoriented. Her head feels like it’s stuffed with bubble wrap, each of her braincells threatening to pop. There’s a dull ache low in her spine from the position she had been sleeping in. 

Kafka blinks blearily, trying to register where she is. The light coming from outside has changed and the silence is peaceful. She turns to the side, realizing that she’s not alone. Stelle is next to her, lying on her side, propped up on an elbow with a book in one hand. She looks down the moment Kafka moves.

“I was dreaming about swans…” Kafka mutters sleepily, “One of them …had Black Swan’s face. It honked in iambic pentameter.”

“That’s horrifying.” Stelle scratches the back of her head, setting her book to the side, “But, perhaps you have a sixth sense if you were dreaming about her. She and Acheron stopped by while you were asleep.”

Kafka’s eyes narrow instantly and sighs, “What did they want?”

“Dropped by to see how you were feeling…” Stelle continues, “Acheron brought a bento for you and then some.”

“Hm.” Kafka casts a sidelong glance at Stelle, “And Black Swan?”

“I don’t know, she brought you some …home-brew restorative tea? She said it was to help you… detox? There’s a jar of dried leaf flakes on the counter.”

Kafka wrinkles her nose, “I’m not drinking some witchy fowl potion. She could be trying to curse me for all I know.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” Stelle chuckles, “I think they just want to see if you’re okay. They looked… worried and sounded concerned.”

“Most children do when their sole parent goes AWOL on them.” Kafka runs a hand through her hair. “You intercepted them.”

“Of course I did.”

There’s a pause, then Kafka’s shoulders drop slightly, “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Kafka’s lips press together, tight with emotion she’s too tired to process right now.

Steam curled out from the cracked bathroom door in lazy tendrils. Stelle hesitated just outside, her brow furrowed. The shower had been running for a while. Just what was Kafka doing in there?

“Kafka? Are you hungry? I was thinking about heating up those bentos that Acheron made and having them for dinner.” Stelle said, knocking gently on the door, “Are you drowning yourself in there? Or trying to turn into soup instead? Cause that’s not on the menu tonight.” 

Kafka’s voice was muffled by the steady fall of water, “I just needed to rinse off the last forty-eight hours.” In a sardonic tone, she adds, “Trying to remember what it’s like to feel something other than deadlines.”

Stelle knocks her head from side to side—classic Kafka dry wit… but with the hint of something else. What do I make of this?—before asking her, “Do you wanna eat though? Or…  should I get you a life preserver while you’re at it?

Kafka snorted faintly. “Are you trying to bribe me out of the shower with carbs?”

“I mean, yeah. It’s currently the most effective method I have, besides coming in there and wrangling you out of the shower myself.”

Another quiet moment passed, just the sound of water hitting tile and the faint hiss of steam filling the hallway. Then Kafka’s voice comes out softer this time. “Why don’t you then?”

“Do what?”

“…Why don’t you come in and join me instead?”

Stelle blinked. “Is that your solution? Lure me into your emotional swamp with nudity and hot water?”

“You make it sound so crass when you were the one that suggested it.” Kafka’s tone was wry, but soft, “I just thought you might like it, is all. You know—seeing me.” 

Stelle’s hand gripped the edge of the door a little tighter. “That’s dangerous talk coming from someone like you.”

“I’m aware.”

Stelle lingered in the doorway, taking a moment to process the shift—the way Kafka’s tone had softness to it, a rare vulnerability woven through the tease. There was a silence that followed—thick, but not uncomfortable. The kind that holds a thousand questions, none of which need immediate answers. And then, slowly, Stelle stepped inside.

Steam clung to Stelle’s skin as she stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Kafka’s silhouette was hazy behind the shower curtain. Her movements were slow and deliberate, like she knew exactly what she’d just done by asking Stelle to come inside. Stelle leaned against the counter, arms crossed, doing her best to act unfazed even as her cheeks warmed. She gazed up at the lights overhead, noting their dimness.

“I thought you hated when I interrupted your shower time?” 

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Since when?”

“Since you started hovering outside my door all the time like a puppy who burned dinner.”

Stelle snorted, “I didn’t burn anything. That’s your forte.”

“Rude.”

“So…” Stelle said, leaning against the bathroom counter, “Do you always shower with such a sense of mystery… or is this a special occasion?”

“You already know you’re special, Stelle.” A low laugh echoes from behind the curtain, “But …I tend to favor the ambiance and silence of the dark.” …It… helps me to pretend that I’m not falling apart. 

Stelle runs a hand through her hair, starting to feel damp now from the heat of the steam. “Yeah, well. It smells like almonds and self-loathing in here. That’s gotta count for something.”

“…Always so romantic, aren’t you?”

“You did ask me in here.”

“I did.”

Kafka slowly pushed a part of the shower curtain back, curling around its edges. Water dripped from the tips of her hair, shoulders glistening under the soft bathroom light. Her eyes met Stelle’s, looking dark and tired. 

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“I know.”

They just looked at each other for a long moment, the air between them growing softer, warmer. Then, Stelle moved forward, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind Kafka’s ear, and kissed her. Kafka didn’t pull away, she leaned into it like it was the only real thing she’d felt all day.

Kafka pulled away first, licking her lips as she did. She smirked at Stelle, her eyes betraying her fatigue, “You always get this bold when I invite you in?” Kafka murmured, voice husky as her forehead rested lightly against Stelle’s.

“Only when I think you need it,” Stelle whispered, brushing the wet strands of hair from Kafka’s face. “And you do.”

Kafka laughed, before backing away and letting the shower curtain fall back into place, “Well, what are you waiting for? Get in here already and show me what you think I need.”

Hearing the challenge in Kafka’s voice, Stelle waisted no time toeing off her socks and grabbing at her t-shirt to pull it over her head. She shimmied her way out of her joggers and panties—taking a tiny little breath—before pulling back the shower curtain and stepping inside. 

When Stelle finally stepped into the shower, she finds Kafka standing with her forehead resting lightly against the cool tile. Her eyes are half-lidded, body lulled into a rare, fleeting sense of calm. Then Kafka feels it—soft fingertips brushing against her waist. Stelle leans in a little further, her chin lightly hooked over Kafka’s shoulder. Gentle. Certain. Kafka doesn’t flinch.

Neither of them spoke—the warmth and silence feeling companionable. Kafka allows herself to lean back into it, just a little, standing beneath the steady stream of the shower. Kafka closes her eyes, letting the water run over her face and her shoulders, as if trying to wash away something she can’t quite name. Her arms are folded lightly across her chest, water trailing down her cheekbones like tears she’d never allow.

Eventually, Kafka pulls away and turns to face Stelle. They just stand there for a moment and their eyes meet—dark and searching—before Stelle reaches for Kafka and kisses her slowly. Kafka responds like she’d been waiting for this moment, like she needed this more than she knew. Kafka made a sound of protest—half-surprised, half-amused—as Stelle pressed her against the cool tile, deepening the kiss without pulling away. 

The steam continued to curl around them as Stelle’s hands slid down to the curve of Kafka’s slim waist. Fingers glided over moist and slick skin, anchoring Kafka to the wall while the water cascaded down both their backs.

Stelle pressed in closer, her hands exploring Kafka’s body with a childish sense of curiosity. First, tracing the curve of Kafka’s spine, then sliding upward to cradle the back of her neck. Kafka’s breath caught as Stelle pulled away and brushed her lips along her neck, her pulse thrumming just beneath the surface. The sound of water pattering against tile echoes softly, broken only by the quiet inhale of breath and the occasional shift of movement.

The return to the kiss is slow, almost tentative at the start. Like they’re relearning each other with every touch. Stelle’s hands come up to cradle Kafka’s face, the pads of her thumbs brushing gently over damp skin. Kafka sighs into her mouth and the kiss deepens—not out of hunger, but out of longing. The world narrows to the taste of one another, the safety of skin against skin, the rare vulnerability of being this close without needing to speak.

Stelle kisses the corner of Kafka’s mouth, her temple, her jaw—each press of her lips to Kafka’s skin is a promise of something more to come. Kafka tilts her head into the brief touches, and for once, she lets herself be held. She lets herself be kissed. Not as a weapon, not as a game—but as something real. 

The spray of the shower beats down around them, steam curling around their bodies as Stelle presses close. Kafka’s head tips back against the tile, the water plastering her hair to her temples, the sharp planes of her face flushed pink from heat and touch alike. There’s a lingering hand that slips from Kafka’s hip, sliding along the outer shell of her thigh, pondering on its quest for something more.

“Is this… okay?” Stelle asked, searching Kafka’s face for any sign of hesitation.

Kafka, flushed and breathless, gave the smallest of nods.

“Good,” Stelle murmured into her ear, “Because I’m not stopping.”

Kafka leans against the cool tile, her breath catching softly as Stelle’s hand settled between her thighs, her other hand braced lightly on her hip. Neither of them spoke—there was only the hush of the shower and the subtle tremble that passed through Kafka’s body as Stelle looked down at her.

Her fingers moved first, gentle and reverent, as though memorizing every detail. Kafka’s eyes fluttered shut, not in restraint, but surrender. She tilts her head back against the wall, letting the water stream down her throat, her chest, over the curve of her stomach—and lower still, where Stelle’s fingers were gently prodding inside of her. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, like breathing underwater. Stelle moved like she knew what she wanted, what Kafka needed. And Kafka—Kafka exhaled a broken sound that wasn’t quite a moan, her fingers slipping into Stelle’s wet hair, holding her there with a quiet desperation that said—don’t stop, don’t leave, just stay.

Stelle kisses her again, slow with a hint of tongue against her teeth. Kafka barely registers the hand tightening on her hip, the way her hips begin rocking against the edge of Stelle’s hand. The slick heat between them continues to build, and Kafka’s voice cracks—half a moan, or maybe a dying plea. Kafka can feel herself slowly unraveling—bit by bit—letting herself feel, letting herself need. Kafka could do little else except cling to Stelle as the kiss finally broke, the both of them gasping for air. 

Stelle pressed her forehead to Kafka’s, their noses brushing. “You’re so beautiful...” She whispered hoarsely, chest heaving from exertion and heat. 

Kafka felt her stomach twist and her chest felt tight. She …wasn’t used to being looked at like this. Someone so hopelessly enraptured with her in her purest and barest state. Stelle watches Kafka, her eyes softening as she sees the vulnerability behind the layers Kafka usually hides behind. Kafka looks up at her with exhaustion in her eyes, the weight of her spiraling thoughts taking a toll. She doesn’t immediately answer, the silence between them hanging like a fragile thread.

So, she kisses Stelle again. Savoring every feeling that floods her physical senses—the way Stelle’s body pressed into hers, in the way that all of this felt so steady and real. Stelle keeps her close, guiding her with a rhythm that’s less about urgency and more about devotion. The water doesn’t stop running. Neither does Kafka’s heartbeat, loud in her ears, threatening to drown her in its weight. Kafka’s eyes flutter, half-lidded, her body unsure of what it should do. Yet, her hands cling to Stelle’s back, nails slightly digging into the soft skin. 

She buries her face in Stelle’s shoulder, breathing hard, “This …this shouldn’t feel this good.”

Stelle doesn’t answer right away. She just shifts her hands slightly—one cradling the small of Kafka’s back, the other splayed between her thighs—holding her steady as their bodies move together, slick and seamless.

“It feels good because it’s real.” Stelle whispers against her ear.

Kafka bites back a sob that she doesn’t understand. Her body is responding—eager and trembling after so long—but her mind is all static and disbelief. Her lip catches between her teeth as she grinds down into Stelle’s hand, the friction unbearable in its gentleness. She gasps, letting the pleasure flood her senses, the tension in her body unwinding with each slow, deliberate stroke. And still, Stelle holds her like she’s something precious.

Stelle’s lips descend to her neck, sucking soft and slow under the stream of hot water. Her hand continues to hold Kafka’s hips against the tiled wall, even when Kafka begins to rut against Stelle’s hand so desperately. The world felt distant, wrapped within steam and the muted pulsing of water echoing from above.

But… then Kafka felt it—something slipping. Not of touch, but of control. 

A warmth between her thighs that wasn’t arousal, or water. No, this was darker—redder—an obvious and unwelcome visitor who had come to disturb this rare moment of intimacy between the two of them. Kafka opens her eyes to half mast and looks down. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t gasp. Instead, she briefly looked up to see if Stelle had noticed it, before her eyes flickered back down to the floor. 

For a long time, Kafka just stared down at the water, her mind nearly flatlining into a kind of stunned blankness. She couldn’t feel Stelle’s lips on her neck, or her fingers pressing inside of her. All she could focus on was the dark ribbon curling downward with the water, spiraling in a crimson thread down the drain. When the flatlining finally reached zero—the beeping screaming in her ears—she pulled away from Stelle, pressing herself flat against the tiled wall behind her. 

Stelle blinked, startled, but didn’t move to stop her. “What’s wrong?”

Kafka said nothing as she kept her eyes fixated on the drain. Then she looked down at her thighs, noticing the red trail that curled like ink around her leg, spiraling down her calf and across her ankle, to the floor. She inhaled softly and sighed, looking up to meet Stelle’s eyes. She watched her closely, looking for a flicker of judgement in her eyes—anything that would give Kafka cause to retreat into herself again.

Stelle finally looks down, following Kafka’s gaze. Then she raises her hand and her eyes widen in fear. She looks at Kafka—then her hand—then at Kafka again, panicking as Kafka remains calm. 

Kafka forces a small sound from her throat—a soft, tentative murmur. “Stelle.” She tries again, this time firmer. “Stelle, I… need a second to—”

“Oh my—OH MY GOD. You’re BLEEDING!” Stelle rushes to run her hand under the water, trying to wash the blood from her palm and fingers, “I—I’m sorry, did I—“

Kafka let out a soft, shaky breath, out of pure disbelief at Stelle’s expression. “Stelle…” She says gently, “That’s …something else.”

Stelle blinked, her brows knitting, confused for a second longer before realization washed over her. Her mouth parted like she was about to say something, then faltered. “Oh,” She mumbled. Her hand hovered awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Her voice dropped to a near whisper—like they were in a school yard and trying to hide a big red secret from the stupid boys, “…Did you want to continue?” 

“Did you?” Kafka gave her an amused look, almost daring glint flashing in her tired eyes. “I mean, I’m the one who’s bleeding here after all. I would understand if you didn’t.” 

“I know.” Stelle says simply.

“And …you still want to touch me?”

Stelle’s answer was immediate, “I want you.”

It wasn’t lust that filled her voice, it was tinged with desire. Something about the way she said it shattered something inside of Kafka. Like a pressure valve being opened. Her head dropped forward, her forehead resting against Stelle’s shoulder. It was like for the first time in weeks, she was letting herself lean into something. To let herself to simply be touched or held.  

“I should probably… get out.” Kafka murmurs, “Tend to the problem before it becomes an actual crime scene in here.”

Stelle presses a chaste kiss to her temple, “I’ll let you rinse off then… and get you some clothes and something to take care of this, okay?” She smiles, with an afterthought, “Even though I love when you’re messy. Or bleeding. Being complicated. All of it.”

Kafka lets out a strangled laugh that she buries in Stelle’s neck. Her hands clench at her back as if she could disappear into her completely. The blood doesn’t matter—Stelle’s still holding her like she’s beautiful. Like she’s whole. And that, more than anything, is what makes Kafka finally believe she might be.

Kafka eventually pulls away to turn off the water as Stelle gets ready to step out of the shower first. Just as Kafka moves to turn around and turn the shower back on, she feels the rush of cool air and the sound of something sharp and sudden—smack. Stelle’s palm lands squarely on her ass, water droplets flying in every direction. Kafka jolts upward, eyes wide. 

“Excuse me?” She hisses, not even bothering to turn around yet.

Stelle giggles as she stumbles out of the shower, lest she be maimed, “What? You looked like you needed some encouragement.”

“Encouragement?” Kafka slowly repeats, still incensed. 

“Yeah, like … positive reinforcement. For surviving a full hour of intimacy without vanishing into thin air.”

Kafka stares at Stelle’s shadow moving behind the shower curtain—then she has the audacity to laugh. It’s a single, disbelieving snort that she tries and fails to smother behind her hand. “You’re such a little shit, I swear.” 

“And you love me for it.”

“Debatable,” Kafka responds as she finally turns the shower back on, “…Don’t do it again.”

“No promises.”

Kafka rinses off quickly, groaning in irritation as she avoids looking down at the shower’s drain. When she finally turns the water off and pulls back the shower curtain to blindly grope around for a towel, Stelle is already there holding one out to her. Not staring, not doing more than she’s told—just… there.

Kafka takes it without a word, letting the shower curtain fall back into place as she sets about drying off in private. From the other side, she can hear the rustling of clothing and a towel hitting the floor. There’s the sound of drawers being rifled through and Stelle whistling to herself as she calls to Kafka on the other side. 

“Your precision is deadly, my lady. Look at this display in here.” 

Kafka frowns, throwing back the shower curtain to see what in the world Stelle was referring to. She finds Stelle thumbing her way through the bottom drawer—the one filled with products for when that time rides around, as it so inevitably does. Kafka feels an uncanny blush coming to her cheeks—and it’s not from the heat of the shower that still lingers in the air. 

Stelle hums as she gestures toward the tampons arranged in a colorful swirl inside of a glass container, “Separated by type,” And then down to the impeccably stacked rows of pads and pantyliners, “And in size order, with the degree of utility?” She grins, “Would you mind coming over to organize the stash I share with March? I think we could use some of your genius in our bathroom.” 

Kafka silently stares at Stelle, slowly budding irritation making her eye twitch, “I thought you were supposed to be getting something for me to wear? Not rifling through my bathroom drawers like some rabid raccoon.”

“Right.” Stelle smiled good-naturedly, randomly pulling a pad out from the stack and placing it on the bathroom counter. She gives it a soft pat, before turning on her heel and leaning forward to grasp the handle of the bathroom, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” 

Kafka sighs, reaching up a hand to cradle her face as the door closes behind Stelle. She massages her temples with her thumb and middle finger and takes a deep breath, before dropping her arm to her side again. She can hear the sounds of her dresser drawers being open and slammed shut, then Stelle’s hurried footsteps as she comes back to the bathroom once more. 

Stelle knocks on the door, “…Did you want me to come back in?” 

“I’m still standing exactly where you left me.” Kafka responds. 

Stelle slowly opens the door, a sheepish and endearing look on her face. She places a set of clothes down on the counter—some worn through sweatshirt from a college—(Paperfold University, Stelle’s alma mater)—Kafka never attended, a pair of black joggers, underwear, and socks. Stelle slinks her way back toward the door, “I’ll… let you get ready then. I’ll go get those bentos heated up for us. Come meet me out in the living room when you’re ready.”

Kafka slowly nods her head, watching Stelle as she leaves and closes the door, before stepping out of the tub and onto the plush bath mat beside it. She drops the towel to the floor, getting dressed and somehow relishing in how comforting the clothing Stelle had chosen for her felt. Within them, there’s the lingering haze of something too intimate to name just yet.

Kafka rubs the sleeve of the shirt between her fingers as she finishes dressing. She tugs at the joggers with a quiet sigh, then smooths her damp hair back from her face. There’s no need to check her reflection—what mattered wasn’t how she looked right now. It was how she felt.

She pads out into the living room, the sweatshirt slightly oversized on her frame and sleeves bunched at her wrists. She pulls one up absentmindedly. Stelle is seated cross-legged on the floor with their dinner now reheated and portioned out neatly on two plates. On the TV, something animated and ridiculous is playing. She looks up when Kafka approaches and grins.

“Well, you look cozy.” And relaxed.

Kafka lifts an eyebrow, slowly lowering herself to the ground. “You picked this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“The outfit? Obviously. I was going for maximum comfort and minimal intimidation.”

Kafka gives a soft huff through her nose and reaches for the plate that’s obviously hers. She doesn’t comment on it, but Stelle watches the smallest flicker of appreciation cross her face.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, the only noise coming from the show and the occasional clink of a fork tapping ceramic. Kafka’s posture softens with each bite, each moment. The heat of the shower has faded from her limbs, replaced by something steadier now—the low burn of safety.

They lay on the couch in the aftermath of dinner. Kafka was curled into Stelle’s arms, one leg draped lazily over her hips, the other pressed between Stelle’s legs. Stelle held her like something precious, her arms wrapped firmly around Kafka’s middle, chin resting in the crook of her shoulder. Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Stelle’s thumb brushed slowly along her hip. “You with me?”

Kafka nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Still feeling …messy, so to speak?”

“You’re not going to let this one go, are you?”

Stelle smirks. “You mean your evil, terrifying secret? That you bleed like the rest of us? No. Never.”

Kafka huffs, feigning annoyance, but it doesn’t quite stick. She lets the quiet settle until Stelle decides to break it again.

“Do you remember your first time?”

Kafka opened one eye, giving her a dry look. “That’s a strange way to phrase it.”

“You know what I mean.”Stelle grinned. “I got mine during the middle of a test in middle school.” She pauses, then huffs out a soft laugh. “I was wearing white.”

“White? That’s tragic.”

“Oh, it gets worse. When I got home, my mom made a huge deal about it. Hugging me and whatnot, saying how proud she was that I was finally becoming… a woman. She even dragged me into the bathroom and we… she had me practice putting a pad on with her.” Stelle murmurs, her face still going red at the thought of the memory, “I didn’t even know what to say. I just know the whole thing was mortifying for my poor thirteen year old brain.”

“I think it’s sweet that she wanted to help you like that.” 

“Oh, sure. You and your mom, standing around in the bathroom together, pulling underwear up over your jeans as she explains the finer intricacies of pads with and without wings.” 

“At least …your mom was around to help you.” Kafka said, eyes growing distant. “Mine came when I was ten. I was early. I bled through my uniform during class and thought it was punishment for something.”

Stelle silently shifts against her as she listens.

“My father sent one of his… colleagues to come and pick me up from school after the teacher sent me to the nurse’s office. When I came home and my father saw the stains, he told me not to make a scene about natural things.” Her mouth curves bitterly. “He said it like I’d done something wrong.”

Silence again. This time heavier, but not uncomfortable

“I didn’t even cry,” Kafka added after a moment. “I was just scared. But more than that—I was embarrassed. Like I’d done something wrong.”

“I would’ve helped you,” Stelle said softly. “If I’d been there.”

“You’re here now.” Kafka meets her gaze. “Not everyone is born into softness, Stelle. Some of us… we have to learn it during our lifetimes.”

Stelle reaches for Kafka’s hand under the blanket and holds it. Kafka squeezes her hand once and doesn’t let go.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? You always seem to remember that first time you bled.” Kafka murmurs, “But every time after, things just become routine.”

“I suppose you just get used to it…” Stelle muses, “One time in PE class, I was wearing light grey sweatpants when it came—very unfortunate choice. This girl in my class noticed and instead of saying anything, she just handed me a hoodie to tie around my waist.”

Kafka raises a brow. “No teasing? No cruel jokes?”

“Nope. We weren’t even really friends. That was the first time I realized girls have this unspoken alliance about certain things. Like—‘you’re bleeding, I got you.’”

Kafka hums, almost thoughtful. “And now you’re the girl handing me the hoodie.”

“No,” Stelle murmurs, tilting Kafka’s face up. “Now I’m the girl holding you while you bleed all over me.”

Kafka rolls her eyes, but her blush betrays her. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re blushing.”

Kafka buries her face against Stelle’s chest, voice muffled. “…I hate how much I like you.”

“Good. Cause that makes two of us.” Stelle gave Kafka’s hand a final squeeze, before flopping over onto her back, with her arms folded under her head, “So, how does the world’s most terrifyingly sexy woman in heels feel about being taken out by spiraling hormones and a demon uterus? That this would be the thing to force you into resting?” 

Kafka groaned, “Don’t say it like that.”

“You mean accurately?”

“Stelle, show some respect.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Stelle reached down to give her a soft and placating pat, “…Can I get you something at least? Chocolate? Something greasy and disgusting? The blood of your enemies?”

Kafka slowly raised her head, considering the thought, “…Can you make me some hot chocolate, actually? I think there might be some in one of my cabinets somewhere.” 

Stelle grasped hold of Kafka’s shoulders to ease her up so she could shimmy out from underneath her. She got to her feet, making a dramatic salute, before turning to head toward the kitchen, “For you? I’ll raid every cupboard.”

“Don’t think this makes me forgive you for calling me terrifyingly sexy while I’m bloated and wearing your sweats.” Kafka muttered from behind her.

“I stand by my statement!” Stelle shouted from the kitchen. “Even if you’re leaking and homicidal, you’re still objectively hot.”

Kafka smiled despite herself, folding her arms beneath her head. Her lower stomach ached and her back was killing her, but somehow, in this absurd little moment—with Stelle yelling about hot chocolate and blood sacrifices—she felt more human than she had in days.

Stelle returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug of cocoa, feeling triumphant. “Behold, my trifecta of pain relief—warmth, sugar, and devotion.”

Kafka raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure hot chocolate counts as devotion.”

“It does when I dig through every cabinet in your kitchen trying to find it for you.”

Kafka accepted the cocoa with a faintly amused expression. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Stelle said, settling back down beside her, stretching her legs under the blanket. “It’s all part of my long game.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. So like, there’s step one—that was to get the brooding beauty to fall for me. Step two? Provide her with chocolate when she demands it. Step three? Win her heart forever. And… step four…”

“You’re ridiculous.” Kafka chuckled, leaning her head against Stelle’s shoulder. She took a sip of her hot chocolate, “What’s step four now?”

“Step four…” Stelle lets out a low chuckle, “You’ll know when we get there.”

Kafka blinked, the mug paused halfway to her lips. “What’s step four, Stelle?” She repeated. 

Stelle hand trailed along under the blanket to find Kafka’s thigh. Her lips brushed Kafka’s ear, and when she spoke, her voice was loaded with intention—low, slow and hot.

“Step four, Kafka… is finally making you come so hard that I feel your thighs shaking against my cheeks.”

Kafka froze, the mug in her hands stilled mid-sip. Her breath caught, her eyes growing wide, and a sudden vivid flush began to crawl up her neck. She didn’t look at Stelle, she couldn’t. She just stared at the floor, like her brain had short-circuited, fingers clenching a little tighter around the cup. Stelle smiled to herself—smug, but warm—and settled back into the couch like nothing had happened. Kafka said nothing for a long moment, lips parting like she might respond, but it took awhile for the words came.

“Step four.” She finally said, “Hm. I would love to see you try and get there.”

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t.” Stelle countered, chuckling triumphantly, “Almost did tonight, didn’t it?”

“You know I don’t require such things, right? I can fulfill my own needs for that just fine. I prefer to, if we’re being honest.”

Stelle shifted beside her, “…But wouldn’t you rather come with your legs wrapped around my shoulders instead?”

The mug almost slipped from Kafka’s hands, as her thighs tensed beneath the weight of Stelle’s hand on her leg. A sharp exhale left her lungs like she’d been punched and kissed at the same time.

“Stelle.” She warned—or maybe pleaded.

“I want to make you shake, Kafka.” Stelle’s voice remained maddeningly gentle, “I want to feel how much you need it. I want to hear your voice growing hoarse from moaning my name...”

Kafka turned toward her slowly, as if she were afraid to make eye contact. Her cheeks were blazing, lips parted around a breath that refused to steady. Her composure had vanished. It wasn’t just that she was turned on—it was the way that Stelle had said it. Like she’d been dreaming about it for days.

“I—” Kafka started, then stopped. She swallowed, eyes flickering down to Stelle’s lips, then back up again. “…You need to stop.”

“Do I?” Stelle teased, leaning in again, “Or do you want me to keep going?”

Kafka’s breath was uneven as she leaned forward, setting the mug down on the coffee table, lest she drop it in some way. She turned away from Stelle, running her hand over her face in disbelief at the filthy words that continued to tumble unashamedly out of her mouth. 

“I’d take my time with you…” Stelle murmured, lips brushing Kafka’s ear now, “Start with my fingers, slow and deep inside of you… until I feel you start to tremble around me.”

Kafka inhaled sharply. She felt something twitch between her thighs.

Stelle smiled, “And then I’d get on my knees. Pull your hips to the edge of the bed and make you beg for my mouth before I even give it to you.”

Kafka’s fingers painfully dug into the fabric of the couch. “Stelle—”

“I’d hold you open, tongue deep inside of you until you’re slick and aching. Until I can taste you all over my lips. And I’d listen to the sound of your voice—breathless, high and desperate…”

“…Stelle.”

“…Until I feel your legs start shaking around my head, and you don’t even remember your own name—”

“Stelle.” Kafka’s voice was harsher now—thicker, cracked open by the molten tension pooling low in her belly. “Enough.”

Stelle stilled, eyes wide and lips parted—like she’d just been pulled out of a trance. Kafka’s head dropped with a frustrated sigh. When she found her voice and finally managed to speak, her voice came out in a trembling whisper.

“Not tonight. Not when I’m like this.” Her eyes, dilated and blown with unspoken arousal, almost pleading with Stelle, “Can we just… bring things back to where they were?”

Stelle’s eyes soften when she sees the effect her words have on Kafka in that moment. She smiles gingerly, leaning forward to reach for the remote on the coffee table, “Certainly. How about some Netflix to settle in and unwind with?”

Kafka looked up, squinting. “Don’t you dare put on another one of those cursed baking shows.”

“But they soothe me.”

“…Yes, well they stress me out.”

Stelle giggled. “Fine. Then what?”

“Put on that series you like. The one with the girl and the sword who gets possessed by a demon or something.”

“You remembered?”

“It was so terrible, how could I not?”

“…Ouch.” 

They both went quiet for a moment, Kafka retrieving her mug from the coffee table, as the TV screen flickered with the soft glow of the Netflix start menu. Stelle scrolled through options aimlessly with one hand, with Kafka’s breath gradually slowing, her cheek pressed to Stelle’s shoulder. Her fingers still clutched the blanket like a lifeline. Then Stelle shifted slightly beneath her. Kafka didn’t move, but she felt it—the way Stelle’s hand slid back down to her thigh, her thumb rubbing slow circles through the fabric of her joggers.

“You say enough…” Stelle said quietly, her voice dipping low again, teasing but more deliberate now, “…but all I can think about is how you sound when you’re right there—right at the edge. How your whole body arches like you’re trying to escape it, but you don’t want me to stop—“

Kafka bolted upright, flushed to her ears. She reached out and grabbed a nearby pillow, smacking it firmly across Stelle’s chest, “Enough already! You’re starting to turn relentless at this point.”

Stelle burst into soft laughter, catching the pillow, “Just keeping step four in motion.”

Kafka sat back down on the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You’ll die happy, at least.”

Kafka looked over at her, narrowed eyes still blazing and cheeks bright pink. But she didn’t tell her to stop again.

The TV cast soft, flickering light across the apartment, low voices murmuring from the show as a sword clanged dully against armor. Stelle leaned back against the cushions, Kafka curled against her side, her head tucked just under Stelle’s chin.

At some point, the sharp wit that usually laced Kafka’s commentary had tapered into half-sentences, then finally nothing. Stelle glanced down to see that Kafka had fallen asleep. Her lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted just slightly as her breath moved in quiet rhythm. The mug had been abandoned on the coffee table, her hand now loosely curled against Stelle’s thigh.

Stelle didn’t dare move, even as her arm started to go a little numb. She looked down at Kafka again, heart tight and full at once. Beneath all the silk and sarcasm, Kafka looked peaceful like this. Younger than she actually was, almost.

“Finally…” Stelle whispered with a fond smile, “…You’re letting someone else hold you for once.”

Kafka didn’t stir, except to burrow a little closer into Stelle’s warmth.

Outside, the city continued on in quiet hums and distant traffic. But inside the apartment, everything felt hushed and still—held in the calm, protective breath between heartbeats. And Stelle just kept holding her. Even when the episode ended. Even when the next one autoplayed. Even when her phone buzzed with a text she didn’t read. 

She just sat there, letting Kafka sleep, as the weight of her trust settled gently against her chest.

Chapter Text

In the haze of summer—nearly half a year ago, when things with Black Swan and Acheron were just beginning to sprout—Stelle asked Kafka the question that she had been avoiding for the longest time. 

Are we… together? Like, officially? Girlfriends?

It’s not because they haven’t kissed yet or have gone beyond that. It’s because Stelle needed clarity. Was this woman—with her sunglasses, her intrigue and mystique—just stringing her along? Or did Kafka see more in what they could become? Stelle doesn’t have much dating experience to go on. Barely any at all. But, she knows that she’s never quite had the feelings that she experiences whenever Kafka is around.

But Kafka is older. Kafka is wiser. Kafka knows things about the world that Stelle hasn’t experienced yet. She’s got a career, her own place—a swanky place at that—and a sense of confidence that comes from knowing who she is. Like she’s not struggling to figure that out anymore. Stelle’s still floundering about in the aftermath of college graduation, still staring at the world with wide and eager eyes that can only mirror how tired and dulled Kafka’s own have become.

But even though Kafka doesn’t ask Stelle the same question, it’s not because she doesn’t want to. Perhaps, it’s because she feels that she’s not allowed to. Not after everything she’s done. Not with the ghosts that still cling to the ends of her coat.

And so, it happens quietly one night.

Kafka sits on a bench near the curb, draped in shadows and smoking a cigarette, waiting for Stelle to finish up her shift at the bar. Somehow, she looks like some lone femme fatale from an old noir film who didn’t know she was already in love.

Stelle spots her immediately as she exits the bar. Her smile radiates warmer than the heat lingering in the air on that summer night. She takes Kafka’s hand in hers, swinging it lightly, as she seeks to pull her into the fading vestiges of the night.

“You know, you don’t have to come every time.”

Kafka drops her cigarette and crushes it beneath her heel. “And miss the chance to see you after you’ve sweated behind a bar for seven hours straight? Perish the thought.”

Stelle bumps their shoulders as they walk down the street, “I hope you mean that in a sexy way.”

Kafka turns her head just slightly, that sly half-smile spreading across her lips, “I mean it in my way.”

Stelle simply smiles at her, but doesn’t reply, unofficially taking the lead as they begin to meander about the city. They move past the shuttered cafés and neon framed ramen joints. Sometimes they pass other late night stragglers, arguing with one another or vomiting rainbow on the hard cement streets. When the rare breeze comes to greet them, it smells like the air after a rainstorm, with a faint sheen of engine oil slicked on city streets. It’s when they reach a small outcrop—a park nestled within the winding folds of the city—that Stelle slows them to a halt.

Kafka watches Stelle gazing up at the dimly lit lanterns that sway in the breeze above them—remnants of some type of cultural festival from earlier on in the day—and notices her hesitation, “…What is it?”

Stelle bites the inside of her cheek as her eyes flicker down to look at Kafka, “I’ve been thinking.”

Kafka raises a brow, a teasing tone in her voice, “A dangerous pastime for you.”

“Shut up.” Stelle’s voice is soft with a tinge of nerves. She drops Kafka’s hand and wrings her fingers together as she walks ahead a few paces, then turns to face her, “Kafka?”

Kafka crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head to the side, “What is it, puppy? You look lost.”

“Are we… together ? Like, officially? Girlfriends?”

Kafka is still. And for a moment, something in the air around them changes.

“Are we… doing this? Like… us?” Stelle asks with a vague gesture between them, “Because I want to. I want to call you my girlfriend. I want you to be mine. And I don’t want to be confused about where we stand anymore.”

Kafka had blinked once, then twice—as if the question had been a slap across the face that had left her breathless. She steps a little closer, eyes narrowed—not cold, but searching.

“You’d claim me… just like that?”

Stelle nods, heart thudding. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”

“And …you’re sure you want to call me that?”

“I—” Stelle hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Kafka studied her in silence. There was no flash of emotion, no warmth or rejection in her eyes. She just slowly blinked, like Stelle was a riddle Kafka hadn’t quite solved yet. Then, Kafka laughed as she averted her gaze, her eyes growing soft.

“You don’t know me, Stelle. …Not really anyway.”

“Maybe not.” Stelle admitted, “But …I’d like to.”

Kafka’s lips curved faintly, almost with a sad sense of fondness. She finally walked forward, reaching out to brush a strand of Stelle’s hair from her face. She cupped her cheek, angling Stelle’s eyes down to meet her.

”Then try, if you’re brave enough.”

Stelle looked at her blankly, then a small smile widened across her face, “Is …that a yes then?”

Kafka dropped her hand from Stelle’s face, “It’s not a no.”

And that was how they officially started. Not with loud fireworks. Not with profound declarations.

Just a simple question made in the darkness before dawn in the park. 

Kafka doesn’t play video games. 

She thinks they’re silly and gauche. They don’t really serve a purpose besides distracting you from what really needs to be done. There’s no real markers of success besides your own self gratification. But, she watches Stelle play them from time to time. Sometimes while she’s working and or when she needs a stupid distraction of some sort. 

“Noice!”

…Kind of like now, actually.

Kafka cringes briefly as she catches Stelle swiping her hand through the air and shaking her fist in an exaggerated motion reminiscent of some old anime that had been memed into oblivion. She turns her attention back to the morning news and tries not to feel further secondhand embarrassment when Stelle leaps off the couch and yells—BINGO BABY!

As the news reporter rambles on about a stabbing somewhere in the city, Kafka just has to ask—

“What’s got you so excited over there?”

Stelle holds her phone up and twirls around, the equivalent of stars shining in her eyes, “I FINALLY PULLED A TRASH CAKE!” 

Kafka tilts her head to the side, “…What?”

Stelle collapses back in the couch and rapidly begins swiping her fingers over her phone screen, “Remember that plushie I got you for your birthday?”

Kafka’s heart lurches at the thought—the poor thing was still shuttered away in her desk drawer, probably crying out for someone to save it from the eternal realm of darkness Kafka had submerged it in. …Maybe she would text Black Swan and ask her to let the poor thing out and bring it to the apartment when she had time. You know. Cause Stelle forgot it. …Or something. Definitely not her lingering sense of remorse over mistreating an inanimate object her easily excitable girlfriend had lovingly bought for her.

“Yes?”

“Well aside from making your own, there’s special monthly edition cake cats that you can pull with this highly addictive gambling mechanism. The Trash Cake is the most compatible cake cat with the Shader Cat—that’s the name of the plushie I got you.” Stelle gives her a sheepish little smile, “If you put them together in your base home, they’ll talk to one another, give each other presents, and sometimes cuddle and fall asleep together…”

Kafka gives Stelle a pointed look, but chooses not to comment. 

Regardless, Stelle continues to shake and vibrate with delight, “It’s drop rate was up by 20% this week and I just spent 20,000 Nyan Nyan Treats trying to get it! That’s like… 1000 pulls.” She shrugs her shoulders, seemingly okay with the results, “Not bad.” 

Kafka blinks again, all the terminology Stelle keeps spitting out feeling like a foreign language, “And just… what is the name of this game, Stelle?” 

“Meow Meow Kitty Kitty Cake Cat Frenzy.”

“Such a long title for such a silly little game.”

“It adds to its charm.” Stelle whips her phone around and leans forward to show Kafka, “Look. At. Them.”

Kafka looks down at the screen to see the aforementioned Shader Cat stretching its body out of its cake shell as it makes a strange sound. Have you had fun rummaging through the trash today? The Trash Cake inches up to the Shader Cat excitedly, making another equally cute and strange sound. Your sunglasses look cute, can I eat them?

“The synergy between the two of them is palpable.” Kafka deadpans.

“I know!” 

“And just… what is the objective of this game?”

“What do you mean?”

“What purpose does it serve?”

“It doesn’t need to have a purpose, Kafka.” Stelle murmurs softly as she giggles at Shader Cat blushing when Trash Cake gets closer and nudges their cake shells together, “It’s just something fun to do. A cute little game where you play with equally cute creatures and they do silly and adorable things.”

“Hm.” Kafka’s lip turns upward in brief appraisal of Stelle. She seems to have acquired her own cake cat while she wasn’t looking. 

Stelle looks up from her phone, “Did you want to do anything today by the way?” She gestures toward the TV, “Besides listening to people dying on the daily carnage report that is?”

Kafka glances at the news as it pans to the shot of some woman reporting about the state of the stock market and considers Stelle’s question. She looks away from the TV and hums to herself, “…Honestly, I was considering checking in with Black Swan to see how she was doing today with managing my workload. Perhaps pull out my laptop for a bit and… see if there’s anything urgent that needs my attention.”

“…Do I have to hide that now, too?” Stelle asks her with a frown, setting her phone off to the side, “Or do I need to resort to pinning you down to this couch as well so you can’t move?”

“I think you’re just looking for an excuse to do the latter.”

“Oh, trust me—I don’t need one.” Stelle retorts, her mouth quirking upward in a smirk. 

Kafka clears her throat, ignoring the innuendo in Stelle’s reply. She sighs, “Besides, I’ve slept. Probably more than I have in the last month combined.”

“You’re supposed to be taking time off, Kafka.”

“The world won’t end if I read one e-mail, Stelle.”

Stelle rolls her eyes, deciding not to push the issue further. Yet, she was ready to enforce her version of the law if Kafka was trying to slip out from under her again. She changes the subject, deciding not to push the issue.

“How are those cramps treating you this morning? You say you slept, but you were tossing and turning all night before I managed to find some of those adhesive warming pads in your bathroom and plastered them everywhere but your face.”

Kafka reaches down and snaps the band of the joggers she’s still wearing, “Still working like a charm, too. Though I suppose I have you to thank for waking up in the middle of the night and tending to me in my moment of need.” She snorts, “If only the world knew of your saintly ways.”

“Oh, I’m already applying for sainthood, I just didn’t tell you yet.” Stelle said. “Patron saint of period-disruptions or savior-of-overworked lesbians. Or… something.”

“Good luck with the Vatican.”

“You joke, but if they saw you naked, they’d canonize me on the spot. Forget turning water into juice or making bread from my toes or whatever.” Stelle whistles, “Your mere existence is a miracle.”

Kafka elbowed her gently, feeling her cheeks warm. “Don’t push it.”

“Copy that.” Stelle crosses her legs and begins rocking back and forth, “So?”

“So what?” 

Stelle gives her a soft and brilliant smile, “How are you really feeling today?”

Kafka sighs like Stelle’s question tugs at something she hasn’t quite settled within herself. But for once, she doesn’t dodge it. Her eyes drift down to the floor, “Are you going to keep asking me that every day you have me on this house arrest of yours?” 

“Not if you don’t want me to.” Stelle replies, “I’m your girlfriend, not someone trying to moonlight as your therapist. There’s a difference, you know?”

“Hm…” Kafka glances up at Stelle, “And yet... I haven’t even told you why I’ve been acting this way.” 

“Do you think it would help if you told me?” 

“It could… make you understand me, sure. But… I’m not quite sure if I’m ready to hand that over to you just yet.”

“Well, tough. Because you’re still stuck with me either way.” 

Kafka smiles, “Because you’re the saint of stubbornness, too?”

“Oh, no. That’s you.” Stelle replies, “I’m gonna build you a whole shrine with a giant marble statue constructed in your honor. There’s gonna be incense and everything.”

Kafka chuckles, “Just where do you get these fantastical whims and ideas of yours?”

Stelle shrugs, “Dunno. They just seem to come to me.” She leans in, “…But, really. Did you want to talk?”

Kafka pauses and then shakes her head, “Later, perhaps. I still feel like I own you an explanation for… everything that’s happened this month.”

Stelle nods her head, “Later then.” She whips around on the couch and plants her feet on the ground. She gives Kafka a soft and hopeful look, “But until then… we’ll just stay where it’s comfortable?”

Kafka’s eyes flickered to the news again—A fatal pedestrian related crash occurred this morning near The Reverie today—and reaches for the remote to switch off the TV with a grimace. Daily carnage report for sure. She watches Stelle as she gets off the couch and then lowers her eyes back to the ground. With a soft nod of her head, she answers her.

“Sure, Stelle. I can do that.”

Kafka absolutely does not play video games. 

Every time Stelle tries to get her to pick up a controller, she says—I’ve already done my fair share of killing. I don’t need the pixelated version of it. But somehow, on this previously sunny day that has somehow succumbed to the call of snow, Kafka can’t deny that she’s intrigued by the one Stelle is currently fumbling her way through. Curled up on the couch, while Stelle sits on the floor in front of her, Kafka takes a sip of her wine and watches as Stelle’s white and blue suited character runs into another dead end.

“What are you playing?”

“Metroid Dread.” Stelle answers, a hint of frustration in her tone, “And I’m seeing now why they named it that.” 

“You’ve died in this place four times already.” Kafka murmurs as she watches Stelle die again, “Make that five.” 

Stelle whips around to look at her, face scrunching in annoyance, “You know, while I usually appreciate your dry and sarcastic commentary while you watch me play—it isn’t helping this time.” 

“…Perhaps you’re conducting a tactical experiment of some kind?” Kafka smirks, unable to resist the urge to tease as Stelle huffs and turns around to pick up the game again, “I don’t know how you keep allowing yourself to get outsmarted by those… giant white robot things.” 

“They’re called E.M.M.I and they’re fucking bastards.” Stelle grumbles.

Kafka takes a sip from her wine and watches as another E.M.M.I corners Samus—this time against a wall—and dies again. “You’re wracking up quite the body count over there.” 

Stelle groans and throws her head back dramatically to look up at Kafka, “Then you try!”

Kafka slowly leans forward to place her wine glass on the coffee table, grabs the blanket draped over her shoulders and shimmies her way off the couch to sit down beside Stelle. She motions with her hand for Stelle to give her the controller, intrigued more by Stelle’s challenge than the game itself.

“Fine. Give it here. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

Stelle gawks, “Wait, really?”

Kafka lifts an eyebrow, “I’m not committing to anything long-term. If I die once, I’m done.”

“Deal.” Stelle says, immediately handing over the controller, “Just try not to die in the next ten seconds or I will never let you live it down.”

Kafka hums noncommittally, adjusting her posture like she’s settling into an interrogation rather than picking up a harmless little video game. Her fingers hover over the buttons for a moment, hesitating with quiet disdain. “This controller is… sticky.”

“Might have spilled some beer on it the other night or something.” Stelle says with a flagrant shrug.

“Hmm.” Kafka ignores it, pressing random buttons on the controller to gauge what does what.

She opens the menu screen and clicks through it for a few moments, surveying the information. She closes it and presses forward on the controller to get Samus to move. Kafka passes through the same corridors that she saw Stelle navigate through earlier with a methodical precision that’s frankly a little terrifying.

“…Have you played this before?” Stelle asks her.

“I assure you I haven’t.” Kafka maneuvers past a trap Stelle had triggered every single time before. “It’s just pattern recognition. And I’ve been watching you ignore the pattern every single time.”

“Okay, that’s—” Stelle tenses, stopping midway as an E.M.M.I appears on screen, and frantically starts pointing at the TV, “This is the part I kept dying on! Just run left, and then drop through the—”

But Kafka doesn’t run.

“What are you—”

“Calculating risk.” Kafka says calmly, dodging through a narrow gap and triggering a cloaking ability that Stelle didn’t even realize was equipped. Samus disappears. The E.M.M.I stutters, confused, and scuttles the opposite way without spotting her.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Stealth.” Kafka murmurs, “How effective.”

Stelle can’t even be mad. “You’re not supposed to be this good. This was supposed to be fun for me. Watching you die and complain about the graphics or something.”

Kafka shrugs as Samus climbs out of danger and casually reaches for her wine again with one hand, not even pausing the game. “Your expectations were flawed. As they always are.”

Stelle glares at her. “If you beat the boss on this try, I’m breaking up with you.”

“No, you’re not.” Kafka says, sipping slowly. “You’re going to insist I play every difficult part for you from now on.”

“…Damn it.”

Kafka smirks, eyes still on the screen. “Dread indeed.”

By the time Kafka made her way through the third boss, Stelle had stopped pretending it was a fluke. She lay sideways on the floor now, chin propped on a pillow she’d dragged down from the couch. She watched as the screen filled with yet another explosion. 

“I don’t understand how you’ve gotten this far with zero walkthroughs to help you.” 

“Why? Is that what you would have done by now?”

“Uh, duh?” 

Kafka just smirked, but she didn’t respond. There was no need for YouTube guides or online walkthroughs. It was just her, a glass of wine, and her pouting girlfriend who couldn’t stop watching her. It wasn’t so much that she was playing the game, she was mentally dissecting it as she went. 

“You know…” Stelle mumbled at some point when it was getting close to midnight, “…You said you weren’t committing to anything long-term.”

Kafka’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “I’m cleaning up your mess.”

Stelle snorted. “I like my mess. It’s part of the experience.”

“So is completion.”

By now, Samus had more upgrades than Stelle could remember collecting in her own play through. Kafka never got lost, never second-guessed. The E.M.M.I—once beings of terror and distress—were now merely… obstacles. Kafka evaded, baited, and slaughtered them with a kind of cold precision that made Stelle feel like she’d accidentally unleashed something she couldn’t put back in a box.

And so, when the final boss fell, Kafka set the controller down by her side with the same grace she used to remove her heels after a long day. She just tilted her head toward Stelle and said, “Well?”

Stelle groaned and buried her face in the pillow. “I hate you.”

Kafka stood, stretching lazily and moved to collect the now empty wine glass. “You’re welcome.”

Stelle peeked up at her, bleary-eyed. “Do you enjoy making me feel inferior?”

Kafka smirked down at her, brushing a loose strand of hair from Stelle’s forehead. “Only when you pout like that.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You started it.”

Stelle rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, “Fine, but tomorrow I’m making you play something stupid like Overcooked.”

“Sounds stupid. ...Is that the one with the weird little people and animals and the food?”

“Sort of.”

Kafka’s expression darkened at the thought, “…God help me.”

The chaos began almost immediately the next morning.

“This game is completely unmanageable.”

Onscreen Kafka’s little chef—some cute and tiny mouse character—ran in circles holding a dirty plate while the kitchen caught fire behind her.

“Put the plate down and grab the extinguisher!” Stelle shouted, already sprinting across the screen as her own character—a raccoon in a wheelchair—tried to reach the burning pan.

“I don’t know which button does that!”

“The same one you use to throw things!”

“I’m not throwing anything, I’m trying to cook—”

“You’re not cooking, you’re panicking!”

“I’m panicking because you’ve put me in a situation with zero structural logic! I can’t play this game!”

Something caught on fire again and Stelle nearly dropped her controller as she began laughing, “Okay, okay—let’s re-strategize. You do dishes, I’ll get to chopping. We can salvage this mess.” 

Begrudgingly, Kafka followed orders. Her character scurried across the screen, bumping into Stelle’s, as she launched another empty dish across the void that was their chaotic kitchen. Just as Kafka was about to start in on dishes, another stove caught on fire. 

“Oh my God—are you sabotaging us?”

“I don’t cook for a reason.” Kafka gave her a pointed look. “And even if I were sabotaging you, you wouldn’t know it.”

Stelle snorted and shoved her gently with her shoulder. “So, you are enjoying this.”

“I’m enduring it for your benefit.”

Stelle paused, “You’re lying.”

Kafka gazed hazily at her, “I’m very good at that.”

The game carried on in the same chaotic fashion. Burning stoves, random ingredients left half-chopped, dishes flying across the screen, and the fire extinguisher never leaving the vicinity. By the third failed order in a row, Kafka threw down her controller and flopped sideways onto the couch. 

“I’ve had enough—this is psychological warfare.”

“Ha, that’s funny coming from you.” Stelle chuckled, “You lasted longer than I expected though.”

“I excel at games with combat.” Kafka said, “This? This is not combat. This is anxiety, Stelle—with VEGETABLES.”

Stelle curled up beside her, controller still in hand. “You still wanna try another level?” 

Kafka closed her eyes. “Only if I’m allowed to throw your character off a cliff at least once.”

“I think that’s called teamwork.” Stelle suggested, giggling some more.

Kafka sighed, already defeated and growing tired. “Fine. One more round.”

“Okay, but this time—you’re on dishes.” 

Kafka’s eyes snapped open, “Absolutely not.”

The morning stretched on with Kafka’s descent into video game hell continuing.

Kafka sat cross-legged on the couch, blanket draped over her lap, glasses slipping low on her nose. She held the controller loosely in her hands, eyes locked on the screen as Zagreus dashed his way into another chamber full of enemies. Stelle sat on the couch’s arm as she drank a soda, watching on with mild interest.

“You’re really into this one,” Stelle said, nodding toward the screen. “Maybe it’s because everyone’s hot and depressed.”

“It’s Greek mythology, Stelle. Of course everyone’s hot and depressed.” Kafka replied, not taking her eyes off the chaos of the battlefield. “Also, the constant looping is what I find most satisfying. Punishment for the stupidity of your failures, forcing you to rectify that in your next run.”

“You would like this sort of thing.”

“Don’t be mad because I’ve gotten further than you have.” Kafka smirks, “Again.”

Stelle scoffed, nudging her knee playfully. “Please, you’re the one over here describing dying over and over again as satisfying.”

“Progress is earned.” Kafka said as she clicked through the Boon screen, “You can’t scream and charm your way through this like you do with everything else.”

Stelle watched as she chose Athena’s deflect. “No kidding. I tried once, died in like five minutes. Got killed by a… what was it? Giant crystal that shot lasers?”

“You probably tried to fight Meg with a spear and no Death Defiance. You deserved it.”

“I didn’t even make it to Meg.”

“I’m not surprised.” Kafka murmured, dryly.

Stelle leaned in a little closer, “So, which one of these characters are you lusting after?”

Kafka arched an eyebrow. “Lusting?”

“Hm, Nyx?” Stelle muses as she turns her attention back to the TV, “Or maybe not. Mommy vibes and all that.”

Kafka scoffs, “Please. I’ve told you before, no calling me that when we’re not in scene.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Stelle giggles, “Maybe… Charon?”

“Yes. His lack of dialogue and endless moaning are simply irresistible.”

“Hm…” Stelle lips curve up, trying to think, “Perhaps …an emotionally distant authority figure who threatens to kill you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Kafka smirked, “Besides… Thanatos is barely distant. He’s just …dramatic.”

“I thought you didn’t do men?”

“I admire his efficiency.”

“Sure you do.” Stelle leaned in, “It’s the scythe, isn’t it?”

Kafka finally turned to look at Stelle, giving her an unamused stare, “Go back to being silent like the furniture. You’re better at doing that.”

Stelle grinned, completely unfazed. “I think you like the attention.”

Kafka rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward, betraying her. In her distraction, Zagreus was overwhelmed by a new wave of enemies and died. She sighed, placing the controller down beside her, “I let that happen.”

“Sure you did.”

Stelle grins like a little gremlin, thumbs smashing the controller as she sends Mugman headfirst into a barrage of bullets. Kafka, seated beside her on the couch, growls under her breath as her lips press into a thin line of frustration. 

“You just ran into that. Again.”

Stelle shrugs, wholly unbothered. “Yeah, but do you see how funny it is when my head popped off like a cork?”

“Stelle.”

“I’m adding flair to the performance!”

“Well it sucks. And I would very much like to get past the giant flower with the flaming petals before you kill us again.”

“Mr. Cagney Carnation is a fashion icon, thank you.”

Kafka groans as their characters both die in the same time, turning into little cup-headed shaped ghosts as they float off into the sky. She sets the controller down in her lap and turns to look at Stelle, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Nooooooo.” Stelle says, drawing the word out in the least convincing tone imaginable.

“You absolutely are.”

Stelle snickers and nudges her shoulder against Kafka’s, “What? Can’t handle losing something once in awhile?”

Kafka raises an eyebrow. “I can handle many things. Weaponized incompetence is not one of them.”

“Alright, alright.” Stelle says, grabbing the controller with mock seriousness. “One real attempt. For you. Because I love you.”

“…You’re impossible.”

“But adorable.”

Kafka sighs and picks up her controller again, “I’m starting the level—and for the love of God—don’t get us killed in the first ten seconds.”

“You know…” Kafka begins as Stelle is scrolling through her endless library of games, looking for something else for them to play, “I was thinking about how much I liked that bounty hunter woman—that Samus character. There’s something very fashionable about a woman in armor.” She tilts her head to the side, “Do you have any other games with her in them?” 

Stelle slowly turns to look at Kafka, her forehead furrowing, “Is …that what turns you on now? Space bounty hunters in morph suits?”

“Aren’t you happy that I’m enjoying something that you do? You’ve already gotten me to play, what—” Kafka asks her, as she begins counting off on her fingers, “—four different games in the span of a day?” 

“Fine.” Stelle huffs as she opens up the Super Nintendo Entertainment System icon and begins scrolling through the endless assortment of games on the screen, “Let’s go old school with this one and see how you handle that.”

Kafka watches as Stelle settles on an icon with a giant red dragon, and what appears to be Samus shooting a beam at him. She leans forward as the screen fades to black and the game loads, her interest piqued, “So this is what you used to play when you were… what? Still adorable and getting your sticky little fingers all over everything?”

“More like sleep deprived and hopped up on Capri Suns.”

“1994?” Kafka laughs to herself as she looks at the screen, “This was out before you were even born.”

“Speak for yourself. You could barely string together comprehensible three word sentences back then.” 

As the title screen opens, Kafka sees a tiny creature pulsing on the TV, letting out an endearing, garbled squeak. Kafka gestures toward the tiny, gelatinous creature floating in a tube. “What is that thing? The little… squishy round thing in the glass?”

“A Metroid. Well, a baby one.” Stelle says as she proceeds through the new game screen and hands the controller over to Kafka, “Samus saves it in the second game, and it kind of… imprints on her. It thinks she’s its mom.”

The game loaded, pixelated text scrolling across the screen in a dramatic crawl—the last Metroid is in captivity, the galaxy is at peace—and the eerie, iconic music began to play. The baby Metroid eventually popped up again with a high-pitched squeal, nestling itself protectively around Samus.

“…So she killed its entire colony and it just so happened to be born at the right time to believe she was its mother, huh?” Kafka crossed one leg over the other as she leaned back into the couch, “There is something tragic about a creature imprinting on someone who’s supposed to destroy it. How… melancholic.”

“You’re rooting for the parasitic murder jelly?”

“I’m not rooting… just observing.” She casts a sideways glance at Stelle, “You know—as the mother of many myself.”

“Mother of many?" Stelle balks, "Are you saying you saved me and now I follow you around squealing at random intervals?”

“I’m not saying anything. I think you’re projecting there a bit, puppy.” Kafka tilts her head to the side, watching the game as Samus’s starship speeds toward the source of a distress signal, “Although… it’s kind of loud, isn’t it? Imprinted on the first scary woman who didn’t immediately try to kill it. Follows her everywhere.” Kafka gave a tired, wry smile. “What a stupid, loyal little thing.“

Stelle let out a sharp laugh. “So you are calling me a parasitic alien larva.”

“Affectionately,” Kafka said. “You’re more dangerous than you look. And alarmingly loyal.”

“Alarmingly?”

Kafka turned her eyes to the screen again as the game finally got to section where she could begin playing, “It’s not a bad thing. You’re … not afraid to latch on despite the glaring warnings right in front of your face.”

Stelle bumped her shoulder into Kafka’s, grinning. “Maybe I just know who’s worth latching on to.”

“Mm,” She murmured, her gaze softening, “Then I hope you don’t let go.”

“Not a chance,” Stelle said, “You’re stuck with me, Ms. Space Bounty Hunter.”

“I like her better this way.”

“Hm?”

“Samus.” Kafka says, “There’s less polish. More myth.”

“You mean less pixels.”

“I mean there’s more story between the lines.” Kafka’s murmurs as she kills a Space Pirate in mid-leap across the screen, “There’s something oddly elegant about it. A woman alone, descending deeper into something no one else dares to touch. She doesn’t explain herself, doesn’t ask questions. She just takes her experience for what it is and moves.”

Stelle bumps her knee against Kafka’s. “So… you’re emotionally bonding with a 16-bit bounty hunter now?”

“She does her own emotional labor. What’s not to like?”

Stelle’s mouth twists in a smirk. “God. You do have a crush.”

Kafka hums, “I find it… calming. There’s a rhythm to it. A certain logic that’s about survival. Escaping things that should’ve killed you, finding new ways to fight back.”

“You’re also weirdly good at this,” Stelle mutters, “And you don’t even like video games.”

“I like this one,” Kafka says without looking away from the screen. “It rewards attention. Observation. That’s rare.”

Stelle watches as Kafka pauses, her eyes flickering back and forth, scanning every detail on the screen, “You really like the isolation of it, don’t you?” Stelle asks, softer now.

“It’s peaceful,” Kafka murmurs. “No noise. No people needing things from you. Just… you. And a quiet world. One that doesn’t ask anything of you except to keep going.” She nods her head toward the orange suited character on the TV, “And like I said before—there’s her.”

Stelle tilts her head. “Samus?”

Kafka nods slowly. “She’s this lone figure that's not really a hero, more like a ghost. A weapon shaped like a woman. People see the hulking suit, the strength. Not the person.” She swallows, for a second before she speaks again. “They probably think she’s cold, detached. But you can still see it. You would think someone who’s fought for so long would be numb to death by now. But she’s not. …She just carries it differently.”

Stelle shifts closer and lays her hand on Kafka’s knee. “You see yourself in her?”

“Maybe.” Kafka murmurs. “In Dread, during the final fight—there's the moment where she finds out Raven Beak isn’t just her enemy, but he’s the one she got her power from. Her strength—he gave it to her. Or maybe forced it into her? Regardless, he still shaped her.”

Stelle stilled, sensing the weight in her tone.

Kafka pressed down on the controller, shrinking Samus down into a Morph Ball to crawl into a tight space, “She spends the whole game running from the things he made—and when she finally faces him, he’s proud of her.” Her mouth twisted upward, “Proud. As if all the pain was a gift. As if he deserves to see the result.”

Stelle didn’t interrupt, waiting for Kafka’s next words to come.

“It’s just… all so familiar.”

“Are you… talking about someone in particular here?” Stelle finally asks her, “From the way you’re speaking… perhaps you’ve already walked away from them, too?”

Kafka went quiet for a moment, contemplating her words as she lost herself in the game, “There was once a man that told me I’d be just like him. Cold and unbreakable, yet brilliant…“ Then she shakes her head, pulling back from the descent. “I did walk away. But the suit doesn’t come off that easy.”

“...You’re not a weapon, Kafka.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that.” Kafka replied, “I used to think… if I gave into my father, it meant he’d won. That I’d turn into him. All of his violence and his rage… I thought it had to be buried to be survived. That I had to amputate the part of me that remembered him so that… I could learn to live.” Her gaze softens slightly, “Some people turn grief into purpose and become something powerful, perhaps even terrifying. But even so, they never let go of their humanity. Even if no one else can see it anymore.”

“And you think people can’t see yours?”

Kafka lets out a low chuckle, “Sometimes I’m not sure I have any left.”

“You do,” Stelle says, “I see it every day, Kafka.”

Kafka leaned back slightly, eyes lowering, “I think I’ve always been afraid that if someone saw that part of me..." The one shaped by blood and control and silence. "...That they’d leave. That they’d see me as tainted. Like I wasn’t a real person anymore. Just… someone dangerous.”

“But I didn’t leave.”

“No…” Kafka said, mostly to herself. “You didn’t.”

“And …I don’t think you’re as dangerous as you say you are.” Stelle said softly. 

Kafka gave a crooked, self-deprecating smile, “…Samus would never get this sentimental.”

“What a tragic oversight in game design.” Stelle simply grinned, “Guess that’s what I’m here for, to help you rewrite your ending.”

Kafka glanced at Stelle, before turning her attention back on the game, “If you do, don’t make it a happy one.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.” Stelle murmured, her eyes softening, “But I’ll make it a real one.”

The front door creaked quietly as Stelle slipped inside, shutting it behind her with a soft click. She kicked off her shoes and tiptoed into the apartment, expecting to find Kafka asleep—maybe curled up on the couch or stretched across the bed. It was nearly four in the morning, after all.

Instead, there’s the soft glow of the TV illuminating the living room, a hue of pale blue cascading against the wall. There was Kafka, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a controller in hand. Stelle paused for a second, taking in the scene—Kafka’s messy hair falling into her eyes over her glasses, the half-empty glass of water next to her, and the blanket forgotten and crumpled beside her on the floor. She looked smaller somehow, sitting there alone in the dark and absorbed in the game. Stelle smiled faintly, her heart warming at the sight.

“You’re still up?” Stelle asked, padding closer and crouching down beside her, “Or were you waiting for me to get back?” 

“Can’t stop.” Kafka replies as the music on the TV shifted to something eerie and ominous. Her eyebrows furrowed—then, a giant mutated Metroid swooped in from out of nowhere. Kafka let out a startled scream, jerking back against the couch. She started to mash buttons in a panic as the grotesque and abnormally large Metroid latched onto Samus and began draining her energy, “What the hell happened to that Metroid?!”

Stelle started laughing immediately from Kafka’s reaction, “That’s… the baby.”

Kafka, still frantically trying to fight it off, stopped when the Metroid pulled back suddenly and floated about Samus. It let out a soft, almost somber like cry, before resorting to its usual squeals. Almost as if it had realized what it had done. Kafka’s fingers slowly slid off the controller. She stared at the screen as the baby Metroid circled Samus, almost protectively.

“…It didn’t mean to.” Kafka said, her voice unexpectedly thick.

Stelle’s laughter eventually died down as she looked at Kafka, seeing the shift in her expression. 

“It’s just a kid. It didn’t know.” Kafka said, watching the Metroid emit a desperate little sound. “What in the world happened to it? It was just a small little thing when it got taken away from us.” 

“The Space Pirates… experimented on it.” Stelle said, “They made it into a weapon.” 

Kafka was quiet for a long moment. The only sound came from the ambient hum of the game, “So it learned to hurt before it understood what it was doing.”

Stelle sat down beside her, cross-legged now too. Her voice was gentler. “Yeah. But it remembered Samus, that’s why it stopped.”

“…It still thinks she’s its mother.” The Metroid on-screen made another soft cry, orbiting Samus with a helplessness that mirrored Kafka’s expression. Kafka leaned back slowly. “There’s …something cruel about it, isn’t it? Giving something life and then warping it until it becomes a threat. Teaching it to survive by hurting things first.” Then, without looking at Stelle, Kafka asked, “Will you stay up with me until I finish this? I don’t want to go to sleep until I do.”

Stelle looks at Kafka, bleary eyes softening, and then slowly nods her head, “I was already planning to.”

The sun was coming up as Kafka neared the end of Super Metroid. 

Kafka had finally made it to the final boss—Mother Brain. The super computer’s grotesque, bulbous form filled the screen, wires and metallic tracks pulsating like something rotten. Kafka’s eyes glowed eerily in the light of the TV, finding something very reminiscent about her form.

“Mother Brain reminds me of IX.”

Stelle, sprawled lazily beside her, looked up from her phone, “Huh?”

“IX. The …former fashion designer from Izumo. Acheron’s old boss.” Kafka’s mouth quirked at the corner, just slightly. Her eyes stayed on the screen, “The one who …didn’t fair so well at Elio’s show last summer.” She said it lightly, almost like she was commenting on the weather. “Didn’t I tell you about that?”

“I… think I remember hearing about it from you?” Stelle frowned, trying to thinking, “You said something happened to her that was bad enough to put her in the hospital, right?”

“Oh, it was very bad.” Kafka said, eyes glinting under her bangs. The screen flashed as Mother Brain roared and Samus kept pummeling her head with missiles. She would never tell Stelle just how bad things had been that night in the service elevator. So Kafka just smiled again—dreamy and detached—and made Samus unleash another barrage of missiles into Mother Brain’s face.

Stelle was still watching her, “What are you smiling about?”

Kafka didn’t answer. She only shrugged lightly, as if to say—nothing important—and kept playing. Inside, she felt something molten and darkly satisfying uncurl deep in her chest. Like the aftertaste of something very, very sweet. 

Kafka’s hands were steady on the controller as Mother Brain retracted and then surged to full height as she began firing rainbow colored energy beams at Samus. Samus was thrown across the screen, kneeling on the floor in a crumpled heap. Then, out of nowhere, the baby Metroid barreled in from the corner of the screen, screeching as it latched onto Mother Brain and began draining her of her power.

“Holy shit.“ Stelle sat up straighter, watching with wide eyes. ”I’ve seen play throughs of this game online, but seeing it in person is something else.”

The baby Metroid looped around the screen before landing protectively over Samus, shielding her with its body as it restored her energy. Kafka’s eyes cinched just slightly, watching Mother Brain eventually come back to life and began to batter the baby Metroid with hits. When Samus was at full energy and the baby was at its limit, Mother Brain let loose one final hit and the baby screeched—finally having succumbed to the damage. And then… the music changes.

Kafka let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, picking up the controller with tight hands as Samus began glowing, “Oh, this bitch is dying.”

“That’s right! She killed the baby!”

“She tried to kill my baby.” Kafka corrected Stelle as she kept firing shots at Mother Brain’s head with whatever new power Samus had unlocked. 

Stelle’s forehead furrowed in confusion, “…What?”

“Never mind.” Kafka quickly answered as Samus fired the Hyper Beam again and again, Mother Brain screaming as she turned redder. Finally, her body disintegrated, with her lifeless head falling to the floor, “Too bad you can’t kick her stupid head in as well.”

“Well… that’s a mission—“ Stelle stops, “—Oh, wait. Nope. I forgot. This game series thrives on always ending with a self destruction somewhere, somehow. Gotta make it out alive first before you get to the end game.” 

Kafka grows quiet as the self destruct sequence is triggered and Samus has less than three minutes to escape. Acheron was never supposed to fight back, she was just supposed to follow orders. Smile for the camera. Be grateful—Stelle says something about the floor being lava. But, Kafka isn’t listening, blowing through enemies as they come—IX… was the system. The thing keeping her in place. Feeding on her, like Mother Brain. And my decision to end her was mercy. For Acheron …and for others.

“You always win in the end,” Kafka whispered as she reached Samus’s starship with twenty seconds to spare, “If you survive long enough.”

Stelle looked at her, “…Kafka?”

It wasn’t only about revenge… it was about correction, Stelle. 

As the first light of dawn spills through the curtains, Planet Zebes proceeds to explode on the TV as Samus’ spaceship soars off into the cosmos once more. Kafka takes a deep breath and sighs, setting the controller down beside her thigh and settles her back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling. 

“What’s wrong?” Stelle asks her, trying to gauge why Kafka is so silent, “Did… the death of the little space jellyfish leave you in shambles?”

“It’s not just a space jellyfish. It was her baby. It saved her life.”

“Uh-huh.” Stelle leans in, “You want me to go out and buy a baby Metroid plushie now to ease your sorrow?”

“No, I already have enough children as it is.” Kafka answers, “What do you think Acheron and Black Swan are for?”

“Sure…” Stelle says, lowering her voice and whispering so that Kafka barely hears her—The ba-BY.

Kafka doesn’t answer immediately. She’s staring at the black screen as if it’s holding something important she doesn’t quite know how to let go of. “I didn’t expect that…” She admits. “It was just a game, but…”

Stelle nudges her. “But it kind of wasn’t.”

Kafka sighs, “It’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?”

“It’s not.” Stelle says quietly, “You saw something live and die for someone else. That’s not stupid, that’s you being human.”

“Ha… “ Kafka tilts her head to the side, “I suppose so.”

“You know, if that were us and some giant swarm of space bug pirates kidnapped you… I’d blow up an entire alien planet just to save you.”

Kafka chuckles, “Noted.”

They sit there for a while, the game console still running in the background. 

Stelle tilts her head to the side, “I’m not really ready to sleep just yet…”

“Neither am I.” 

“Wanna …play something silly to get your mind off of it?”

Kafka considers Stelle’s suggestion for a minute, before nodding her head, “Sure, Stelle. That would be fine.”

“You died again.” Kafka said flatly, setting the controller on her thigh with a long sigh. “That’s the fourth time.”

Stelle flopped sideways on the floor, grinning up at her. “I don’t know what to tell you. I was protecting you.”

“You exploded. That’s not protection.”

Stelle snorted and nudged Kafka’s arm, “Come on, just spit me out again. I’ll be more careful this time.”

Kafka stared at the screen for a long moment, then reluctantly pressed down, making Kirby crouch and give up his power-up. The little star floated away, and another helper spawned. “You are now… Burning Leo. For the love of God, please—don’t waste him.”

“He’s got fire hair! I love him.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed in thirty seconds, aren’t you?”

“No,” Stelle said with fake offense, pressing buttons and immediately running straight into an innocent Waddle Dee. “Well. That one didn’t count.”

Kafka lowered her controller and gave her a sidelong look. “You’re deliberately testing me.”

“I’m building trust. If you’re willing to sacrifice your abilities for me, I know it’s real love.”

“It’s not love,” Kafka said dryly, “It’s begrudging tolerance.”

Stelle grinned and leaned into her. “Same thing.”

Kafka made Kirby float over a pit and sighed as Stelle ran right into the spikes instead, “If you die one more time, I swear to god—”

“You’ll what? Deny me the joy of being your flaming sidekick?”

“…I’ll pick that stone character the next time. So you’re just a slow rock.”

Stelle gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Stelle huffed, turning back to the game. She managed to survive another ten seconds before running into another spike again with a dramatic yelp, “Noooo! Burning Leo, my beloved!”

Kafka didn’t even look at her. “You lasted twelve seconds. A new personal best.”

“I was distracted by your overwhelming presence.” Stelle said, rolling onto her back and throwing an arm over her forehead like a tragic heroine. “The way your fingers move on that controller—it’s intoxicating.”

“I will throw you out of this apartment." Kafka snorts, despite Stelle's theatrics, “You know… when I imagined this little house arrest of yours, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Stelle sat up with a triumphant noise, “But you did imagine something with me.”

“I imagined silence.”

“Liar.” Stelle said, crawling closer and poking Kafka in the side. “You like it when I talk endlessly and tell you stupid things.”

Kafka closed her eyes for a long moment, like she was offering a silent prayer to any deity willing to give her patience, “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re enchanted.” Stelle corrected her, and then promptly picked up her controller and ran into another enemy so that Burning Leo caught on fire and exploded. She turned back to give Kafka a dopey smile, as Kafka threw her head back against the couch with a groan. 

At first, it’s nothing. 

They’re sitting around in the living room in the early evening, finally haven awoken from their midday coma. Stelle makes them food while Kafka yawns and slumps against the kitchen counter, ready to go back to sleep. Her eyes burn from staring at pixels for too long—she needs a break from all the flashing lights for a little while. 

So, Stelle switches the TV on to some streaming service and puts on something silly instead. Harley Quinn—the animated series. Stelle just smiles at her and says—I think you might like this one, it’s kinda witty—AND—there’s lesbian activity. Kafka gives her a noncommittal hum as they settle into the couch, wrapped together in the throw blanket. 

The show is a mess and Kafka can already see why Stelle likes it with its radical and nonsensical type of humor. But, then Kafka sees the red hair, the articulation and wit, and the pale, lunatic clown that seems to go against everything sensible thing told to her and she hears that name—Red. Suddenly, it’s like something clicks in her brain and the cogs begin to turn. 

…She reminds me of Himeko.

The words are faint, like Kafka had barely even said them. But when Stelle turns to look at Kafka, Kafka wishes she could snatch the words out of the air and shove them back into her throat. There’s a room in Kafka’s mind. A locked room with no keyhole, simply labeled do not open unless you’re ready to bleed. Kafka’s gaze stays forward, fixed on the images of Harley yelling and Ivy trying to rein her in. Stelle studies her for a minute with a quiet sense of curiosity. Then, finally she asks. 

“Himeko?” 

“It’s nothing.”

Stelle doesn’t believe that for a second, and Kafka knows she doesn’t. Still, she doesn’t press. Just leans a little closer, like she’s trying to figure out if this is a memory Kafka might be ready to hand over. They sit in silence for a while after that, Stelle stealing sideways glances at Kafka when she can tell the edges are fraying a little. But, Kafka isn’t ready to let it out yet. So, she’ll just have to wait it out for now. 

The show continues in the background—Harley yelling about something ridiculous, Ivy sighing, her voice a calm amidst the chaos. It’s the same dynamic with a different setting—but everything feels the same. Kafka wishes she could shove it all back into the locked room in her mind. And even though that room stays closed, the door is slightly cracked now.

Stelle doesn’t need to know. Not yet.

Kafka’s body tenses and the smile that had tugged at her lips during the lighthearted moments with Harley and Ivy fades, a shadow creeping over her features. She glances down and without a word, she slowly rises from the couch, the blanket slipping to the side with a soft rustle.

“You okay?” Stelle watches her, blinking in surprise. The sudden shift in Kafka’s demeanor has her on edge. She hadn’t been expecting this, not after the easy flow of things over the last day or so.

“I think I’m going to go close my eyes for a little while.”

Stelle’s brow furrows in confusion, “But you were just fine, not long ago. We were having fun, you were laughing—what happened?”

Kafka doesn’t turn to face her, “It’s nothing. I’m just tired, Stelle.”

But there’s something in the way Kafka's shoulders slump that makes it clear this isn’t just about being tired. Kafka’s walls—always so rigid—seem to be closing in again, the space between them growing wider, colder. Stelle hesitates, unsure of what to do with the sudden change in mood. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words don’t come. Instead, she just watches Kafka retreat toward the hallway, as if she’s already slipped back into herself. The room is too quiet now and Stelle remains seated, unsure whether to follow or give Kafka the space she clearly wants.

After a few moments of hesitation, Stelle gets up from the couch. Her feet move before she can overthink it, drawn to the quiet emptiness Kafka left in the living room. She moves down the hallway, her fingers brushing along the walls as she approaches Kafka’s bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway from the bedside lamp. Kafka is sitting in the center of the bed, her posture rigid, with her legs tucked beneath her. Her eyes are fixed downward, her phone gripped in one hand. She’s not moving, just staring at the screen in silence.

“Kafka?” Stelle softly calls to her.

Kafka doesn’t respond at first, her gaze unmoving from the phone screen. 

“Everything okay?” She pauses, trying to gauge Kafka’s reaction, “You just …sort of vanished, you know? I thought you were having a good time earlier …did something change?”

Kafka’s shoulders stiffen again at the words, her body language closing off just like it always does when she starts to feel cornered. She turns to look over her shoulder at Stelle, before turning back around to look at her phone. She taps the screen of her phone absentmindedly, but the words in front of her don’t seem to make any sense anymore.

“It’s just… this stuff.”

Stelle raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, “You’re sitting there like… I don’t know. Like something’s got you stuck.”

Kafka’s lips press together as if she’s considering something. She doesn’t respond immediately, but the words are trapped somewhere inside her, just behind the thin veil of her usual indifference.

Stelle moves a little closer, trying to read her face. “You want to talk about it?” 

Kafka’s fingers tap lightly on the phone again, like she’s fighting the urge to scroll through something or reply to someone. Finally, she lets out a sigh, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what to do with it all. It’s just… too much sometimes.”

Stelle sits beside her on the bed, “What’s wrong, Kafka?” 

Kafka’s grip tightens slightly around the phone. She finally lowers it, setting it face down beside her. “Sometimes it just… creeps up on you. …The feeling. Everything feels fine and then suddenly it doesn’t.” Her voice comes out low, almost like it’s been waiting in her throat for too long, “The show just… reminded me of someone.”

“A …good someone?” Stelle asks carefully.

Kafka chuckles under her breath, “…Once.”

Stelle glances at the phone on the bed, then up at Kafka, “Old friend?”

“Something like that.” Kafka replies absentmindedly as she turns to look at the ceiling, “She had red hair. I was just thinking… how much Poison Ivy reminded me of her. And I guess, that would have made me her Harley Quinn.” She adds, a faint bitterness curling beneath the words. 

“No way.” Stelle said firmly, “You’re not Harley.”

Kafka raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Then who am I?”

“I always thought of you as more of my Poison Ivy.” Stelle said, a faint blush coming to her cheeks, “And I’m the Harley, aren’t I?”

Kafka blinked at her, genuinely caught off guard for a second.

Stelle shrugged, “I mean, you’re smart, and strong, and… stubborn. You act all cool and controlled, but you care way more than you let on. And me… I’m just the chaos you got stuck with somehow.”

For a moment, Kafka didn’t say anything. She just stared at Stelle, before she shifted closer and rested her head lightly against Stelle’s shoulder, “I suppose, if I have to be anyone’s Ivy… I don’t mind being yours.”

Stelle smiled, wide and warm, and quietly pressed a kiss to the top of Kafka’s head. She glances down at Kafka, “…So, this person you’ve been thinking about? Does… she have a name?” 

“Himeko.” Kafka says, offering the information up without having to be pushed, “…It’s not just tonight that I’ve been thinking about her. She’s been on my mind for a while now.” She closes her eyes, inhaling through clenched teeth, “She was…”

“Yes?”

“She was someone I once tried to hold onto for longer than I should’ve. Not like she made it easy to.” Kafka murmurs. The truth felt like rot in her mouth. Still sweet. Still dangerous. “She recently texted me after many years of silence between us. …And I feel like it’s been haunting me ever since.” Kafka sighed through her nose. “I didn’t recognize the number at first. Thought maybe it was a client or something. …She said she’s coming to Penacony soon and… that she wants to meet when she does.”

“Do …you want to?”

“No.” Kafka’s answer was immediate. But then, less certain, “…I don’t think so.”

Stelle’s voice came gentle, low, “Do you… still love her?”

Kafka stalls for a moment, then answers. “I once wanted her to be in my life, but now I don’t know what I feel. All I know that it never really stopped hurting long after she left.” She closes her eyes, “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel anymore. I never got the chance to fix things between us before they ended.”

Stelle sighs, “Sometimes… you don’t get a chance to fix everything. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone forever.”

“…I thought I was going to marry her once.” Kafka lets out a dry laugh, “I even bought a ring.” 

Stelle stays quiet again out of respect. She doesn’t want to interrupt when it seems that Kafka was finally giving her an in. 

“But, she wasn’t mine to have. Not really, anyway. But for a while, it felt like she could be.” Kafka continues, “I …never gave her the ring, didn’t even have the chance to do so. By the time I came back from Izumo… she had already made up her mind that I was too much. That… she couldn’t deal with all of who I am.” 

“…Did you message her back?”

Kafka simply shakes her head.

“Do you want to talk to her?”

“…I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide right now.” 

“I know.”

“And …you don’t have to see her if you don’t want to.”

“But if I do…” Kafka murmured, turned her head up to look at Stelle. Her eyes were tired, but clear, “Will you still be here when I come back?”

Stelle met her gaze without flinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Kafka stared at her a moment longer, like she was memorizing the words.

“…Good.” She said quietly, “Because I don’t think I’d survive it again.”

The lights flicker purple and green. Not the colors of a home, but of a circus—a circus of chaos. Somewhere between the smoke of smoldering fires and the rot that scales up the walls, emblazoning the past, Kafka walks barefoot across tiles that stick to her soles. Her white chemise is stained red around the hem, pink where water tried and failed to wash it out. In her hands is her a violin, the stringed are snapped and the neck is cracked.

“Play something for your old man.” A male voice croons from the shadows.

She turns around to find her father sitting upon a throne on top of a stage. Smoke curls around him, a cigarillo loosely suspended from his fingers. His face is painted in patchy white paint, his smile red all over. His hands are bloodied up to the wrists. Kafka flinches when she sees a him, but she doesn’t run.

“You remember what I told you, princezná?” He murmurs, tapping the ash off into a chalice that’s filled with bloody teeth. “There’s no leaving the circus. You are the act.”

Kafka tries to speak, but her mouth won’t move—her jaw is wired shut. Her arms raise of their own accord and she starts to play the broken violin. It’s a sad and wretched sound, something akin to screaming, rather than the smooth and somber sounds of strings being stroked over with a bow. 

Ropes unfurl from the feet of her father’s throne. Coarse and stained, the kind used in back alleys, or to tie wrists to radiator pipes. Kafka’s legs are bound before she even realizes that the ropes are coming for her. The broken violin falls from her hands as her wrists are jerked behind her, thrashing as she falls to the floor. 

“You thought you could run off and leave me to wear your fur coats and take pretty pictures of bitches?” Her father laughs as he puffs on the cigarillo, “You don’t get to leave this story. You are what I made you. And you’ll never—”

“Kafka!”

The wall proceeds to explode in a glorious blast of pink smoke and glitter. From the wreckage strode a wildly grinning Harley Quinn—shorts, pigtails, bazooka and all—but her voice was unmistakably Stelle’s—Stelley Quinn? Stelle threw her bazooka up into the air, cartwheeled and flipped her way into the room, and caught her bazooka as she crouched in front of Kafka who was still tied up on the floor. 

“Step away from my hot dominatrix, you creepy old clown!”

Kafka’s father let out a menacing snarl. But, before he could speak, Stelle pulled the trigger on her bazooka and triggered another massive explosion of pink swirls and glitter. The room was obliterated in a burst of sparkles and shrapnel, and Stelle emerged victoriously from the carnage with Kafka—liberated from her ropes and wires—in her arms. 

Kafka had little time for questions as Stelle sprinted toward a … floating rocket powered baseball bat waiting for them in the distance. She leapt and somersaulted through the air with Kafka still in her arms, landing perfectly on top of the floating baseball bat whilst screaming—GALACTIC BASEBALL BABY!—and they were off. They soared over the whole of Penacony on the giant rocket-powered baseball bat, leaving a trail of rainbow glitter in their wake. Kafka blinked, stunned into silence, as Stelle beamed down at her. Was that… a cake cat shaped sticker on her cheek? 

“You okay, sugar blossom?” Stelle asked, planting a kiss on Kafka’s cheek.

Kafka blinked once more, “…The fuck just happened?”

“We’re eloping to the moon is what!” Stelle declared proudly, “And I made sure to pack snacks!”

Kafka stared on, too dazed to argue. The sky faded into a soft shade of pink as the world below melted into pastel clouds and glittering stars. The fear slipped away, her father’s voice was gone. The rocket-powered baseball bat continued to spiral through the clouds, now spewing rose petals from its turbo powered jets in conjunction with the rainbow glitter. Kafka glanced behind them as the city faded from view—trying to figure out how this thing was steering itself—but more importantly, how Stelle was still holding her in her arms. 

The rocket-powered baseball bat eventually powered through the atmosphere, speeding off in the direction of the moon. When they finally reached their destination, the baseball bat landed and Stelle set Kafka down first, before parking the baseball bat with a quick click of her rocket car keys. Kafka surveyed the bizarre landscape, noting that there seemed to be an entire colony living on the surface of the moon. There were vending machines that only sold cherry lollipops and silk baseball mitts. The craters of the moon were bubbling hot springs, and cake cats wearing sunglasses squealed excitedly at them as they passed. Stelle grabbed Kafka's hand, pulling her along with entirely too much pep in her step.

“Where are we?” Kafka asked.

“Our honeymoon hideout!” Stelle said, as they neared a bright red door to some random building that had suddenly come into view, “Don’t worry. Nobody who wears evil clown makeup is allowed.”

Kafka raised an eyebrow, finally noticing the mess on Stelle’s face. Had that red gelantinous substance always been covering her lips? “…Are you bleeding from that fight with my father?”

“It’s strawberry jam.” Stelle said proudly, throwing open the door and pulling her inside, “I got hungry in the middle of battle.”

Kafka wanted to point out the logistical implausibility of it all—but then she spotted the bed in the center of the room made of moss and rose petals. A disco ball descended from the ceiling, casting reflections that turned the room into an underwater kaleidoscope. It was at that point, Kafka gave up trying to find the logic in anything that was happening right now.

Stelle led her gently over to the bed and pushed a strand of hair from her face, “You looked scared back there. I blew him up as hard as I could.”

Kafka’s mouth twitched. “You did great. The glitter was overkill, though.”

“Lies.” Stelle whispered and leaned in to kiss her. 

Kafka startled slightly, some piece of her halfway waking—but Stelle pulled her back down with a hand to her chest. It was a firm weight that told her to stay. Outside the window, the rainbow sun spun around in circles and started to scream. Zagreus drove by in a convertible with a baby Metroid in the passenger seat, squeeing happily as it threw confetti into the air. Kafka closed her eyes and let herself sink deeper.

Her father’s voice was gone. The blood from her chemise had vanished. All that remained was Stelle, endearingly stupid and bright and brave, holding her steady while the world rearranged itself into something soft. And maybe—just maybe—as Samus’ spaceship soared across the sky and Kirby hummed a lullaby from somewhere close… she could stay here a little while longer.

Kafka lay back in the moss-rose petal bed, staring up at the spinning disco ball above. Light danced across her skin in shimmering circles, and Stelle was a warming presence beside her. Still there, never leaving. 

Once again, Kafka asks her, "...Where am I, Stelle?" 

"On the moon. In a rose petal bed. With a disco ball. With me."

Outside, a cake cat began to sing a charming duet with the baby Metroid. They sounded suspiciously like a barbershop quartet. 

“Do you think...” Kafka whispered, blinking her eyes tiredly, “...if I stayed here long enough, I could forget everything back on Earth?”

“No...” Stelle said gently. “I think you'll only remember things more loudly if you do."

The disco ball slowed. The underwater light faded into something calmer, the rainbow light of the sun pouring in through the window in soft waves. The absurdness of the room began to bleed around the edges—blurring, a distorted reality starting to set in. Kafka sat up and looked down at Stelle—the remnants of strawberry jam on her lips, the sticker on her cheek, the tenderness in her eyes. And she smiled.

The room began to unravel as rose petals drifted upward instead of falling. The sun melted into watercolors, the entirety of the space fading into white, the disco ball fragmenting into stars.

“But, you know. You can stay here—with me—as long as you need." Stelle continues, her voice sounding warbled and warped as the dream faded away, "...But it’s also okay if you wake up now, too." 

When Kafka eventually did wake up, the dream still clung to the edges of her consciousness—strawberry jam, the weight of Stelle’s arms around her, and pink clouds of smoke laced with glitter. But there were real arms, not the weight of the dream, currently wrapped protectively around her waist. 

“You were talking in your sleep. Something about…Galactic Baseball?” Stelle mumbled against her back, voice gravelly with sleep. 

Kafka could only laugh as she shifted in the sheets.

Stelle shifted up onto one elbow, hair tousled and eyes barely open. She was squinting at Kafka like she was trying to read her mind. “Having a nightmare about me carrying you again?”

“Oh, it was no longer a nightmare after you appeared.” Kafka murmured, her laughter softly dying down.

“…So then?”

Kafka rolled over to face her, “You showed up with a bazooka, told me we were going to elope, and blew up my father in a hideout made of bad memories.”

Stelle’s eyebrows rose. “That’s… a lot.”

“You were wearing Harley Quinn shorts.”

Stelle yawned, then gave Kafka a lopsided smile. “So I came to save you?”

Kafka stared at her for a minute. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either. Instead, she nudged closer, resting her forehead against Stelle’s chest, “Something like that.”

“Okay,” Stelle whispered, folding her arms around her again, “But if he ever comes back... I’m bringing two bazookas to finish him off.”

A lazy smile spread across Kafka’s face as she closed her eyes, letting the weight of Stelle’s arms settle over her once more.

Stelle sits cross-legged on the floor of the kitchen, back leaning against a cabinet, with a mug of coffee warming her palms. Kafka stands at the counter beside her, barefoot and wrapped in a robe she hasn’t belted.

Kafka lights a cigarette and takes a drag, closing her eyes and tries to ground herself. Stelle takes another sip from her mug of coffee, looking up at Kafka. 

“…Did you ever come out to your parents?”

Kafka slowly opens her eyes and looks down at Stelle, “…Why are you asking me about that now?” 

“I don’t know. I was just thinking about that dream you said you had about your father…” Stelle says with a shrug of her shoulders, “It just seems… fitting I guess considering the circumstances?”

“My mother left when I was young. Never saw her again, not once…” Kafka replies, “I don’t think she would have cared enough to ask who I liked should she have stayed. As for my father…” She trails off, grabbing her ash tray and moving to sit beside Stelle on the floor, “He didn’t ask either. But I suspected he knew about it… and about other things.”

“…And?” Stelle asked, prodding Kafka to go further. To give her more, now that the dam had finally cracked. 

“And I suppose he probably hoped that I’d grow out of it. He wanted me to wear dresses and keep my legs crossed at dinner—said the only kind of woman who didn’t marry was the kind that ruined men instead. I think he meant it as a warning.”

Stelle rests her cheek on her knee. “Did you ever tell him anyway? Just to spite him?”

“I told him I’d never belong to a man, and that was enough.” Kafka’s gaze sharpens faintly, “My family wasn’t really the most stable. There were a lot of expectations, a lot of pressure. And it wasn’t really what you’d call a… nurturing environment.”

Stelle chews on the inside of her cheek, “What …was he like?”

“My father?” Kafka takes a drag from her cigarette, “He was a man who liked having power over things he didn’t deserve to own. Our house had a basement… where he’d keep what he didn’t want the world to see. I went anyway to look, just to spite him.” She replies, “There’s no one to come out to anymore. No one is left, Stelle. There’s just ghosts who linger long enough for you to feel their presence… and then they’re gone.”

Stelle nodded, accepting the vagueness of Kafka’s reply. Even while her past remained so far away, it wasn’t something Kafka was too keen on sharing. The shadows of her father’s life still haunted her in some way. And they were pieces of herself that she didn’t want to revisit, not even for Stelle. For a moment, the two of them sat in their silence. Then, Kafka breaks it. 

“Do your parents know, Stelle?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re dating a woman like me.” Kafka doesn’t look at her, but her tone is light—filled with a latent curiosity. She takes another drag of her cigarette, exhaling and waiting for Stelle to answer her.  

“Kind of?” Stelle shifts, sitting up a little and sets her coffee mug down on the floor beside her feet. She begins rubbing the back of her neck self-consciously, “They know I’m seeing someone. They don’t know it’s you.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“No,” Stelle says quickly. “God, no. I mean—yes, that’s part of it. They’re fine with it, they just… worry about me? I mean, they’re kind of old-school. They think I’m still ‘figuring everything out’.” She emphasizes with air quotes. 

Kafka snorts, her mouth curling into a wry smile. 

“And then there’s you, you know?” Stelle continues to ramble on, “You’re older. Successful. Put-together. And I’m this just-out-of-college bartender who still gets lost on the metro and has to google recipes when I don’t know what I want to cook.”

Kafka’s taps the cigarette against the ash tray, “You’re afraid they’ll think I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Aren’t you?”

That earns Stelle a real laugh out of Kafka, “Only consensually.”

Stelle groans and buries her face in her hands. “Don’t say that if I ever put you on speakerphone.”

“You don’t have to tell them, you know? Not if it makes things harder for you.”

“I want to.” Stelle says, muffled behind her hands. “Eventually. I just want to… feel like I’m not completely floundering first.”

Kafka nods slowly, her voice thoughtful. “So it’s not about shame. It’s about being seen next to me and feeling like you don’t measure up yet.”

Stelle lowers her hands. “Pretty much.”

Kafka leans in, brushing a piece of hair behind Stelle’s ear. “You realize I’m the one who wakes up and wonders how the hell I convinced you to stay, right?”

Stelle blinks. “What?”

Kafka flicks her cigarette against the ash tray again, “…I’ve spent years telling myself that I didn’t need anyone. Then you walk in with your chipped nail polish and your baseball bats and suddenly I’m the one losing my balance.”

Stelle smiles slightly, blushing at Kafka’s words, “I think …they’d like you, you know? Once they got over the shock of it all. My mom would ask what serum you use, and my dad … my dad would try to arm wrestle you.”

“I’d let him win.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“…No. I wouldn’t.” 

Kafka shifts, curling one of her legs under her thigh. There’s a question that had been on her mind for a while, but it had never felt like the right time to ask. She was used to keeping things about herself guarded, but today, the weight of the conversation felt different. And her curiosity about Stelle’s world—the one she hadn’t fully shared yet—tugged at her.

“So…” Kafka started, her voice softer than usual, “What’s your family like?”

Stelle folded her arms loosely across her chest, her eyes flickering to the side, as if reflecting on the idea of her family before speaking.

“They’re… a bit much sometimes.” Stelle said, with a soft chuckle, “Big on appearances, you know? Lots of noise, but quiet expectations. My mom’s always trying to get me to marry some rich guy she met at her tennis class or whatever. And my dad, he’s fine. Just kind of… checked out. Busy with his business stuff.” Stelle looked down for a moment before meeting Kafka’s gaze. “I have a twin brother, though. Caelus. He’s probably the one I’m closest to, even though he can be a pain sometimes. But we also get each other, you know? Even if we’re a little too alike sometimes.”

Kafka couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at the corner of her lips, “A twin, huh?“

“Yeah, he’s the older of the two of us. He’s always doing something crazy and dragging me along for the ride. But I don’t mind it, because he’s the one person I can always count on. Even when everything else is… well, a mess.”

The quiet that followed was comfortable, but there was a subtle tension in the air. Stelle seemed to sense the shift in Kafka’s mood. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes softer now. 

“I’d still like to know her, you know?” Stelle says gently. “The girl that you might’ve been if things were different and you followed the path your father tried to lay out for you.”

Kafka gives her a faint smile. “She wouldn’t have known what to do with someone like you.”

“Well…” Stelle leans her head against Kafka’s shoulder. “She missed out.”

“I suppose she did.” Kafka reaches over to ash her cigarette out, “So… how did your parents take it initially when you came out to them?”

“I think they were more confused than anything at first. I’ve always been kinda… me, you know? They got used to it. It wasn’t really a big deal.”

Kafka raised an eyebrow, her expression a mix of intrigue and skepticism. “They didn’t react… badly?”

Stelle shook her head, her smile soft. “Nah. It wasn’t that dramatic. My mom’s been pretty cool about it. She just wants me to be happy, so long as I don’t bring home some psycho.”

Kafka chuckled faintly—wasn’t she though—with something bittersweet in her smile. “That sounds… surprisingly normal.”

Stelle laughed softly. “Yeah, I guess it is. Maybe a little too normal for my taste sometimes. I know some people aren’t so lucky when it comes to family, though. I guess I am in that way.”

“You are.” Kafka nodded, her lips tightening into a thin line. She glances at Stelle, her eyes searching her face for a moment. “Not everyone gets that.”

“I know.” She paused before adding, “But I think it’s a bit easier when you’re just… you. And not hiding parts of yourself.”

Kafka’s gaze flickered down for a moment, “…Stelle?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been …patient with me.” Kafka murmurs, “And I keep trying to tell myself it isn’t real. That you’d get tired, or see through me. Or grow up and realize I’m not worth all this softness you keep handing me.”

Stelle sits up, “And have you realized that I mean it when I tell you I’m not going anywhere?”

Kafka glances down at Stelle, not exactly answering her question, “When Himeko said she loved me …it felt like there was some unforeseeable weight attached to it. Like love came with a checklist. Show up, be gentle, be less demanding, stop falling apart in inconvenient ways.”

Stelle slowly blinks, yet she stays silent.

“…I thought it was me. That I was too much. I tried to meet her where she wanted me to, but I...” Kafka trails off, her thought unfinished. She reaches up on the counter behind them and pulls her pack of cigarettes into her hand, lighting a new one. She takes a long drag before continuing, “…Those messages that I received from her? They’ve been on my phone for at least a month now—unanswered—but constantly gnawing at the back of my mind. I thought … I was past her, but the suddenness of it all unraveled me in ways I never expected.”

“You don’t have to explain why it got to you.” Stelle says softly, “But I’m glad you’re telling me. I wondered what was going on for the longest time… but you just kept silently drifting away.”

“I don’t want to repeat what I had with her…” Kafka pauses, then taps the cigarette against the side of the ash tray, “…I just don’t know how to do this and believe it will last.”

“Then don’t believe in forever. Just believe in today. And then tomorrow. And whatever comes next.”

“I think I could try that.” Kafka laughs to herself, shaking her head, “You know… sometimes I used to think your generation was too soft and whiny. But, I can see some merits in how you guys move about the world.”

“In what way?”

“Some of the stuff you all preach… I believe is just too absurd and not rooted within any realm of reality. I grew up with grit and … learned to be hardened in order to deal with life.”

Stelle lifts an eyebrow, amused. “And now?”

“…I used to believe vulnerability was dangerous. That softness made you a target. That any display of emotion was a crack someone could exploit. But I look at you… and somehow, you make it look like a strength.”

Stelle doesn’t say anything right away.

“I still think your music taste is questionable.” Kafka adds dryly, trying to soften the moment with something more familiar, “But maybe you’re not entirely misguided.”

Stelle snorts, “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” 

“I’ll try.”

Kafka takes another drag from her cigarette and tilts her head back to blow smoke into the air above them, “I think I’d like to… try being a little softer. …My father believed softness was a defect. He didn’t say it outright, but you could hear it in the way he talked about people. The way he looked at me when I flinched at things.”

Stelle takes a sip from her mug of coffee, waiting for Kafka to continue her thought.

“He raised me …to believe that sentimentality was a kind of disease. That love made you weak, and being weak got you killed.” Kafka laughs softly under her breath, but there’s no humor in it, “I didn’t even realize until years later how much of that I’d swallowed.” She looks at Stelle, “I think that’s part of why I thought your generation was soft. Because you let yourselves feel everything. You talk about it. You name it. And I thought that made you easy targets.”

Kafka takes a minute to ash out her cigarette and grabs the ash tray as she prepares to stand.

“But maybe… you’re just surviving differently, Stelle.”

The world outside Kafka’s apartment is drowned in snow and silence, Penacony lying sleepily underneath.

Kafka lies with her back against the couch, a thick throw blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Stelle is curled up on the other end of the couch, her phone in hand as she plays her silly cat gacha game. 

“You’re thinking about something.” Stelle says quietly.

Kafka doesn’t look at her. “I do that sometimes.”

“Is it about work? Or something else?”

“Do you remember the night at the park. When you asked me to be yours?”

Stelle’s face breaks into a grin before she can stop it, “Of course I do. I thought you were going to laugh in my face.”

“I almost did. But then you said it—that you wanted me. And I dared you to try.”

“I still do.” Stelle says, “Every version of you.”

“I don’t always know how to be… like this.” Kafka admits. “But I want to. With you.”

Stelle puts her phone down without looking, letting it slide onto the cushion beside her. “You don’t have to know how. You’re already doing it.”

“I spent a long time thinking love was something you earned. Or forced. Or kept through control.” Kafka says. “But you just… offer it. Like it’s not conditional.”

“It’s not.”

Kafka laughs, “You’re either very naïve or very brave.”

“Maybe both.” Stelle slides closer, but still giving Kafka space to pull away if she wants, “But you’re not the only one learning.”

Kafka doesn’t answer right away. But after a moment, she leans her cheek against the top of Stelle’s head, closes her eyes, and lets her hand rest lightly over Stelle’s.

Outside the apartment’s windows, the snow keeps falling over Penacony.

Chapter Text

Kafka’s heels clicked sharply on the apartment floor as she came to a stop at the front door. She doesn’t know if she should be doing this, she doesn’t know if she’s ready. But, she tells Stelle she wants to try.

She readjusts her coat and unfolds her sunglasses, sliding them into place over her nose. But as Kafka finishes putting on her leather gloves and reaches for the locks on the front door, she stops and stands there, unmoving. It comes as a lurch, deep within her chest right under her heart. Then something twists between her ribs, sharp and sudden, and she feels unbearably cold. Her coat feels too tight and her vision narrows, the front door beginning to blur in front of her. Kafka’s bag slips from her arm with a heavy thud and her legs giving out. She cradles her head as she slowly sinks to the floor.

Kafka doesn’t know how long she stays that way, trying to breathe and trying not to fold. She falls forward, her arms falling to her sides as she presses her forehead to the front door. She hears keys jingling in the distance, then heavy footsteps coming closer to her. 

“Okay—I’m just about ready to go. Are you—“ Stelle pauses when she sees Kafka sitting in a crumpled heap by the front door, shoulders heaving, “Kafka?”

Kafka can’t speak, she just keeps dragging her hands over her face and choking on air as she tries to breathe. Stelle mutters—Shit—and quickly makes her way over to the front door.

“Kaf—” Stelle drops to her knees beside her, “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

“I can’t, Stelle.” Kafka shakes her head and takes a shaky inhale of air, “I don’t know why. I just can’t.”

Stelle gently places a hand on Kafka’s back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. Just try to match my breathing, alright?” Stelle whispered. “In through your nose… slow. Just like this.”

She exaggerated the inhale, then exhaled slowly. Kafka didn’t match her right away. But eventually—staggered and uneven—her breaths began to mirror Stelle’s rhythm. Kafka eventually relaxed to a point where her shoulders stopped shaking. But eyes remained closed, simply resting, instead of collapsing further into the abyss.

“I was fine…” Kafka whispered eventually, “I was fine… and then I wasn’t.”

“I know.” Stelle murmured as she ran her hand up and down Kafka’s back, “You don’t have to be today.”

She watched as Kafka had finally started to breathe steadily again. Her forehead was still pressed against the door, her eyes half-lidded from the sheer effort of trying to regain control of her body again. Stelle watched her a moment longer, then gave a small, decisive nod to herself.

“…Okay. Time to deploy emergency dumbass protocol.”

Before Kafka could question it, Stelle wrenched her backwards, catching her in one arm. Stelle grounded her feet into the floor and scooped her up—arms under Kafka’s knees and back—grunting with effort as she stood up.

“Stelle—” Kafka began to protest as Stelle staggered and swayed. She was going to throw her back out with these moronic feats of care one day. 

“Nope.” Stelle declared, slowly shuffling away from the front door with trembling arms, “Denied! You’ve been officially benched by the Galactic Baseball League for being too hot and emotionally fried.”

Kafka blinked at her as Stelle carried her bridal-style down the hallway. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I never do.” Stelle grinned. “That’s part of my charm.” She turned sideways after kicking open the bedroom door, “Now hush before I bring out the bat.”

“Bat?”

“Galactic. Baseball. Bat.” Stelle said, like it was a holy weapon of war.

Kafka sighed into her shoulder, too tired to argue or question her further. Stelle shuffled quickly toward the bed and carefully set Kafka down. Kafka rolled over onto her side, before flattening out with her back on the bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Stelle walked around toward the edge of the bed and made quick work of unzipping Kafka’s ankle length leather boots, pulling them off her feet. Kafka sighed as Stelle shuffled over to her, ready to undo her coat, but Kafka shook her head.

“You don’t have to undress me. I can do some things for myself, you know?”

Stelle silently shrugs her shoulders, scurrying away toward the front door to put her boots away in the shoe closet. When she returns to the bedroom, Kafka was curled up on her side, grasping tightly to the pillow tucked her her head. She had managed to pull off her coat and pushed it to the floor, leaving it in a crumpled heap beside the bed. 

Stelle reached for the blankets and gently tucked them in around Kafka until she was snug, like a burrito. She sat down on the bed beside her, crossing her arms over her chest and leaned over to try and peer at Kafka’s expression.

“Are you angry with yourself that it happened again?”

Kafka shrugs her shoulders, too tired to speak.

“Because you don’t have to go charging into the world every time it yells your name, you know?“ Stelle leans down to press a kiss against Kafka’s temple, “Rest now. Galactic Baseball Girl will stand guard. No evil clowns. No work related phone calls from swans. Just sleep.”

Kafka closed her eyes, “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re welcome, by the way.” She pulls back, “You’re not a coward for needing more rest. The battlefield’ll still be there tomorrow. But today, I’m throwing glitter at the enemy and coming in hot as backup.”

“I thought you were going to bring more bazookas to the fight?” Kafka murmurs, her voice muffled by the pillow.

Stelle stood up from the bed, raised a triumphant fist in the air, and shouted, “Whatever it is it doesn’t matter because—GALACTIC BASEBALL HERO STELLE SAVES THE DAY—AGAIN!” She lowered her voice and bowed, “This episode had been brought to you by cake cats and unconditional support in the face of soul crushing anxiety.”

Kafka turns further into the pillow, hiding the faint smile on her face as she curled into the covers.

“Anyway, I’m not asking how to fix it. But, I kind of want to know, so I understand…” Stelle said, “What happened back there? You seemed so ready to go into work when you woke up this morning.”

Kafka’s turns slightly, her eyes flickering upward to look at the ceiling, “It was just …cold.”

“…Cold?”

“…The last time I walked out that door, I told myself I’d deal with it later. That if I kept moving, it wouldn’t follow.” Kafka’s fingers curl tightly around the pillow, “But today… it felt like something was waiting for me on the other side.”

“Would you like to tell me what that was?” Stelle asks, sitting down on the bed once more.

Kafka releases her hold on the pillow and rolls over to look up at Stelle, unsure of how to explain herself. 

“I felt like… I was watching myself go through the motions of leaving and going to work. But everything kind of bled into one another to the point where it all stopped making sense and I didn’t know where I was anymore…”

Kafka sees herself stepping out into the street, the dull gray winter sky overhead, snowy slush melting beneath her heels. Yet, she doesn’t remember what month it is—almost February—only that the world remains silent as she walks. The phone in her handbag rings and buzzes incessantly. Messages unread. Calls missed. Elio’s voice on the other end of a message—Kafka, where are you? 

She walks past her favorite cafe as the street vents cough steam into the wintry air. Kafka misses the turn for her subway station, walks past the flickering sign for some pawn shop, ignoring an alley where dead bodies are left to rot. 

She doesn’t know what she left behind in her apartment that morning. Himeko’s mug of coffee is still warm on the nightstand, there’s a fading picture of Acheron sitting alone on the beaches of Takamagahara taped to the fridge. She feels her hands wrapped around IX’s throat as she chokes the life out of her body. She coughs up a thousand replicas of the ring Kafka was going to propose with.

She’s five again, hiding underneath the floorboards of the basement, while her father screams down the hall. She’s seventeen, blood on her hands, with the wind wildly whipping through her hair as she runs. She’s twenty-three and drunk, standing within the neon cityscape of Izumo, trying to decipher signs she can barely read or understand. She’s every version of herself she thought she could bury.

And when she gets to the door of the agency, it’s not even locked. She could go inside, step into that whitewashed lobby like nothing ever happened. But, her hands start shaking and she knows she won’t be able to stop them if she opens that door. What if someone asks where she’s been? What if they don’t? 

…What if she’s forgotten how to be Kafka?

When she finally turns away—when she runs—it’s not brave, or logical, or planned. It’s instinct. And the next thing she knows, she’s on the floor by her own front door, feeling like she might throw up. 

Then, there’s footsteps and Stelle’s muffled voice calling her name.

“It was the feeling of the cold, Stelle… and how I wasn’t ready to confront what was waiting for me on the other side of that door.” Kafka blinks, trying to find the words as she comes back to the present moment, “I keep thinking if I go back… if I try to push through it… I’ll be able to forget. Like it’ll go away if I just… pretend it didn’t happen. But… I can’t keep hiding.”

“You’re not hiding.” Stelle reaffirms, “You’re taking the time to rest. Something you desperately need.”

“And the longer I do that… the longer it’ll take to reclaim everything that has slipped away from me in my absence.”

“You could always try working from here if it bothers you that much. But… I think Black Swan wouldn’t mind if you take a few more days to rest.” Stelle says, “Your boss has been oddly polite about your absence, hasn’t he? He hasn’t called you at least.”

“Elio’s not polite, he’s patient. Which is worse.” Her eyes flicker toward the ceiling again. “He knows I’ll come back eventually and that he doesn’t need to say more than he needs to. That’s his genius.” Kafka’s fingers loosen around the pillow, “Everyone’s just been so …understanding that it’s starting to feel like a threat. Like they all know something I don’t.”

“You mean like… you’re the only one expecting yourself to be okay already?”

Kafka doesn’t answer at first. Then she gives a faint, one-shouldered shrug beneath the blankets. “I just don’t want to be seen like this. Like I’ve lost control. Like I’m not who I say I am.”

“You’re still Kafka.” Stelle replies gently, “You’ve just got your burrito mode activated.”

Kafka exhales slowly, eyes closing. “Stelle…”

“I can call Black Swan. Let her know you’ll be remote today.”

“She’ll probably already guess that’s the case when I don’t show up at the agency again.”

Stelle stands, stretching her arms overhead with a groan. “Then it won’t be news. I’ll handle it and tell her you need a few more days to rest. You just stay burritoed.”

Kafka doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t argue either.

Stelle heads for the door, pausing in the frame. “You want anything? Coffee? Tea? Flamethrower?”

“Silence.” Kafka murmurs.

“That’s a bold request with me around.” Stelle laughs, “But, I’ll see what I can do.”

Stelle disappears into the hallway, heading to the kitchen to make something light for Kafka to eat. Kafka can hear her humming, dishes clattering about. She closes her eyes, sighing to herself. 

Stelle returns to the bedroom carrying a tray—a mug of tea and a small plate with buttered toast and apple slices. Kafka raises an eyebrow from her cocoon of blankets.

“You planning to spoon-feed me next?”

“Not unless you ask nicely.” Stelle replied sweetly, setting the tray on the nightstand.

Kafka slowly pushed herself out of the sheets and reaches for the mug of tea. She lets it warm her hands for moment, before taking a sip. The overwhelming bitterness hits her tongue and she sputters, coughing and looking down at the mug with disdain.

“What is this?” 

“Black Swan’s tea concoction.” Stelle answers, “Is it… bad?”

“Ugh.” Kafka sat the mug down on the tray, “I’m either going to lose my mind if I spend another day in this bed, or die from drinking that first.”

“We’ll work on the tea. As for your mind…” Stelle perches herself on the edge of the bed, “It’s just hiding out while your body catches up.”

Kafka reaches up to rub her hands over her face, “This is pathetic.”

“You’re human, Kafka.”

There’s no room for argument in Stelle’s tone. Kafka looks away, jaw tight, but she doesn’t protest. Not out loud at least.

“Eat something.” Stelle says gently, nodding her head toward the plate, “Then you can try to work a little if you’re up for it. Or maybe grumble and fume silently. It’s your choice.”

Kafka looks at the toast and apple slices like they’re a trap. Her stomach twists—not from hunger—but from the idea of letting something stay inside of her. After a moment of deliberation, Kafka picks up an apple slice and bites into it, chewing slowly, her expression unreadable.

Stelle smiles softly. “There she is.”

Kafka gives her a withering look, “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not smug.” Stelle leans down and kisses her temple. “I’m proud.”

Kafka sighs, begrudgingly biting into the toast next. She finishes it off and shovels two more apple slices into her mouth. Stelle takes the empty plate and sets it on the tray. She climbs back into bed beside her.

“You can work later…” Stelle murmurs against her hair as Kafka curls up with her back toward her. “Just be with me for now.”

Kafka closes her eyes and leans in.

For once, she listens.

The apartment is steeped in quiet—the kind that settles over everything like dust. 

Kafka sleeps on, tucked under layers of blankets, curled against Stelle. However, Stelle pulls herself from the cocoon of warmth to retrieve Kafka’s phone from the nightstand. It’s buzzing again—the third time in the past hour.

Stelle steps out of the bedroom quietly, easing the door shut behind her. Kafka stirs slightly as she closes it, but doesn’t wake up.

“Hi, Black Swan.” Stelle answers softly, moving into the kitchen. She flicks on the kettle for tea, holding the phone between her shoulder and cheek.

“Stelle.” Black Swan’s voice is calm, but there’s an undertone of concern. “I assume she’s still unwell?”

“She’s resting.” Stelle says gently. “Really resting.”

“I see.” There’s a brief pause before Black Swan speaks, voice lowering into something quieter, more empathetic. “Just… how bad is it?”

Stelle glances back toward the bedroom. She thinks of the way Kafka clung to the blankets that morning, her jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “Bad enough that she finally let herself stop pretending.”

“…Understood.” There’s another pause, then Black Swan adds, “Did she drink the tea?”

Stelle turns around to look at the barely touched canister of tea leaves on the counter, “She… tried?”

“Too bitter, hm?” Black Swan chuckles warmly, “Try again. It’ll help, I promise. I usually make some for Acheron when she has trouble sleeping.”

“Hmm…”

“Anyway, I’ll field what I can, but you should know—Elio’s asked me twice if Kafka’s… functioning.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“You know…” Black Swan trails off, “Perhaps you should have her talk to Acheron. I’m sure whatever you’ve been doing has been helping… but Acheron has a certain way with words that might get through to her in ways neither of us can. They’ve known one another for quite some time, after all.”

“Acheron… doesn’t really seem like the talkative type.” Stelle says, “Do you really think that’ll work?”

Black Swan laughs gently, “Oh, you just need to get to know her is all. She’s actually a lot sweeter than you think.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Stelle says, absentmindedly scratching at her cheek, “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, just a simple check in. I’ll get back to work, but send my love will you?” 

“Will do.” Stelle says, ending the call.

She leaves the kettle bubbling and returns to the bedroom to see Kafka awake, rubbing at one of her temples, still submerged in the blankets.

“Work again?” She mutters without opening her eyes.

“Nothing that can’t wait.” Stelle replies, setting the phone back on the nightstand and crawling back onto the bed, “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

Kafka sighs, but she doesn’t open her eyes. She turns over in the sheets and presses her forehead lightly into Stelle’s shoulder instead, letting herself drift back off to sleep.

Once again, the world could wait. 

Kafka awakens in the late morning to more incessant ringing coming from her phone. She groggily pulls her phone from the nightstand, checks it, and promptly gets out of bed while murmuring something about—Elio and photo edits—and—This can’t wait.

Stelle doesn’t press or try and wrestle her back into the sheets as Kafka pulls on her robe and disappears from the bedroom, rushing off down the hall in the direction of her office. She flops back onto her pillow and sighs. Don’t hover, Stelle. Let her come to you. 

In the early afternoon, Stelle meanders her way into Kafka’s office to check on her—only to find her slouched over her desk, fast asleep. Her glasses rest beside her outstretched arm, and there’s a half full cup of black coffee sitting idly near a stack of neatly arranged manila folders next to her laptop. 

Instead of waking her, Stelle heads to the coat closet and just so happens to pull out one of Kafka’s most treasured coats—something black with ruffled fuchsia sleeves and spider web patching on the shoulders, still smelling faintly of her perfume—and drapes it gently over her shoulders.  

A groggy voice erupts from below as the coat hits her shoulders, “I wasn’t sleeping.” 

“You sure about that?” Stelle retorts, taking a step back as Kafka rises from the desk. 

Kafka takes a minute to orient herself, cracking her neck as she shifts from side to side. She looks down at her shoulders, her eyebrows rising in gentle appraisal.

”Would a blanket have not sufficed?”

”That seemed too cumbersome.”

“…Funny that you would pick this one.” Kafka chuckles, running a fond hand along the sleeve of the coat.

”Why do you say that?”

“I wore this coat during the first time I shot a campaign for Elio. It was autumn… but unbearably hot that day. I remember standing on a balcony after the last shot, thinking… maybe this is what peace feels like.” She cranes her head back to look at Stelle, “It was a gift from the designer. He wanted me to have it before the shoot even began. …I kept it because I wanted to remember that feeling. I don’t get it often.”

“You could have it more.” Stelle says gently. 

Kafka shrugs, turning her attention back on her laptop, “Maybe I already do.”

Stelle lingers for a moment, watching Kafka reposition the laptop and put her glasses on with a familiar sort of detachment.

“You don’t have to keep working,” Stelle says. “You were literally unconscious a minute ago.”

Kafka’s fingers still on the trackpad. “Deadlines don’t sleep.”

“Neither do you, apparently.” Stelle tilts her head toward Kafka’s forgotten mug of coffee, “Is that cold?”

“Probably.”

Stelle reaches for the cold mug and winces, “Yeah, that’s not coffee anymore. That’s punishment.” 

As she turns to leave the office, Kafka’s voice stops her, “Stelle.”

“I promise I’m not fussing over you.” Stelle says without turning around, “I’m just making coffee.”

“And choosing sentimental coats from my closet.“

Stelle turns halfway, lifting an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I ignore you completely and let your spine fuse to the desk?”

Kafka considers that. “…Depends on the day.”

Stelle huffs and disappears down the hall to the kitchen. She reemerges a few minutes later with a steaming mug and sets it gently beside Kafka. “You do this a lot?” 

“Fall asleep at my desk?”

“Work until you collapse. Pretend it’s normal.”

Kafka chuckles darkly, “What’s the alternative?”

“Taking a break. Letting someone else take over. Sleeping somewhere that isn’t made of wood.”

Kafka finally meets her eyes. “I sleep when I need to.”

"Rest isn’t a reward, Kafka. It’s just something people do.”

Kafka smiles again, “You say that like it’s obvious.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not to everyone.” Kafka reaches for the mug of coffee and takes a long sip. She reclines in her seat and looks up at Stelle, “Do you truly want to help?” 

“…What did you have in mind?” 

Kafka grins at her, a playful glint in her eye, “Can you edit fashion photography without destroying the color balance?”

Stelle returns the grin as Kafka kicks the floor to shift aside in her chair and give Stelle free reign of her laptop, “I can try.” 

Stelle reached for the touchpad and started tinkering with the settings. Kafka takes a sip of her coffee and watches her with amusement, just to see if anything Stelle came up with was better than she could at her most exhausted. Stelle began to move the sliders, not drastically, but enough just so that the color balance was off. She remembered how Kafka adjusted exposure in increments—how she sharpened eyes and softened everything else.

But Stelle … just didn’t have the eye for it. 

She added too much contrast and the model’s skin lost its softness. She tried to smudge out a blemish and left a faint blur across the model’s cheek. She thought the hair looked too flat, so she bumped up the saturation. She dragged a slider, adjusted curves and played with tones. The shadows didn’t fall right anymore, the red in one image deepening too much.

A few moments later, Stelle leaned back proudly. “I think I fixed the lighting on this one.”

Kafka glanced at the screen, “…Why does she look like a Victorian ghost?”

Stelle frowned, “I thought the white tones made it look dreamier.”

“She looks like she’s haunting a bathtub.” Without looking, Kafka pulled herself forward and softly nudged Stelle’s hand away from the laptop, “You’re cute when you ruin my work.”

“I try.” Stelle replied, beaming at her. 

“Thanks for trying.”

Stelle leaned against her shoulder. “Even if submitting something this atrocious might get you fired?”

Kafka laughed, audacious and loud, “I’d burn that place down before they fired me.”

Kafka stood at the kitchen counter, the overhead light off on the stove. She looks down at her phone, the screen glowing pale against her face as her hand hovered over Acheron’s name for a moment longer than necessary. She exhaled, quietly irritated with herself, and then tapped the call icon.

It rings once, twice—then Acheron answered with a muffled inhale and the rustling of bedsheets, “Kafka?”

Kafka presses the phone against her ear, “Peaches.”

Acheron’s voice sharpens, “It’s late. Why are you calling me right now?”

“…Dunno. Maybe you’ve got something spicy to share with me?” Kafka answers, toying with her lighter.

“You’re calling me at one-thirty at night.” Acheron said flatly. “You’ve become the very thing you complain about.”

Kafka smiled faintly. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“Then why call?”

“Habit, I suppose.”

There was a long pause, then Acheron asks, “Did you kill someone again?”

“No.” Kafka said. “I thought about it. But, no.”

“…Still counting ghosts in your ceiling then?” 

“No. Tonight it’s the fridge.” Kafka leans against the counter. “…Acheron?”

On Acheron’s end, there’s the faint whisper of—go back to sleep, Momo—before asking Kafka tiredly, “What?”

“Do you remember the word for ambulance?” 

“What?” Acheron asks sleepily, “In English?” 

“In your native language.”

“…Kyūkyūsha.” Acheron pauses before asking, “You’re calling me this late at night to ask me about ambulances?” 

“I kept saying pewpewshut. Sounds kind of the same if you say it fast enough, doesn’t it?” 

Acheron goes silent for a moment, “…Kafka.” 

“I was just thinking...” Kafka murmurs as she slides a cigarette between her lips and lights it, “Don’t you think it’s about time we talked about things?”

“In what way?” 

“You know.” 

“I don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Kafka asks, her voice growing softer, “Because sometimes, Acheron… I remember the paleness of your lips and the cold, clammy feel of your skin beneath my fingers. I remember how I didn’t panic… but just how quiet everything was.” She takes a drag from the cigarette, slowly blowing out a long trail of smoke, “I filed that time in Izumo into the back of my mind like it was paperwork, and I sent you to the sea like it would cleanse you of everything that had been done. And now you’re here in Penacony… back here with me.” 

There’s silence on the other end of the line as Acheron doesn’t respond, so Kafka continues. 

“…I called Himeko after I watched them cart you off in the ambulance—you know, in the kyūkyūsha.” Kafka laughs bitterly as smoke curls around her, “I was just standing there… alone in the rain, on the brink of losing another important woman in my life.”

Finally, Acheron speaks, “…You never told me that.”

“There’s a lot I didn’t tell you...” Kafka whispers, more so to herself than to Acheron. She stares down at the glowing edge of her cigarette as she holds it out in front of her. 

“You’re not responsible for me anymore, Kafka.” 

“I never was. But, that didn’t stop me from sitting in that hospital chair, while you stared at the wall like you didn’t know your own name.” Kafka’s voice cracks, inhaling deeply as she tries to get a hold of herself, “…I should’ve told you not to go back then. I should have told you to come back to Penacony with me right then and there.”

Acheron’s answer comes quietly, “…Perhaps you should have.” 

“You could have died. …And I don’t think I ever really grieved that.” 

“I think we both put it somewhere and never looked back.” Acheron replies. There’s rustling on her end as she shifts in the sheets, “…You sound like you’re underwater, Kafka.”

“Perhaps I am.” Kafka replies airily, “I just… keep thinking how I wasn’t enough. I just handled it. That’s all I did.”

“You stayed with me.”

“I didn’t save you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Kafka takes another drag from her cigarette, “But, that’s all past, isn’t it? You’re doing better here… with her, aren’t you?”

“Yeah… I am.” Acheron replies. “But are you?”

Kafka doesn’t answer that one. Instead, she asks Acheron, “Do you ever think about what would have happened if we didn’t make it out of there?”

Acheron’s voice is steady. “No. But sometimes I think a part of us stayed as well.”

Kafka nods once, though no one sees it. “Yeah. Me too.”

Silence lapses into the conversation. There’s the hum of the street outside, a dog barking somewhere far off. Kafka takes another drag of her cigarette and asks Acheron another question. 

“Do you ever think you weren’t supposed to leave?”

“Perhaps… but you did.”

“You told me to.”

“And you listened.”

Kafka closes her eyes. “I didn’t want to.”

“But you did anyway.”

“…Yeah.”

Acheron exhales. “…Is that what this is?”

“This?” Kafka questions. 

“You, calling me in the dark. When the fridge light’s the only thing left on to keep you company at night.”

“…Maybe.” Kafka dragged her cigarette along the edge of the ash tray, “Can I ask you about something, Peaches?”

“You’re going to even if I tell you no.”

“Ha, I probably would.” Kafka says, “When you first got together with Black Swan… you were apprehensive about certain things, weren’t you?” 

Acheron made a noise, not quite a laugh, “You’re going to have to narrow it down, Kafka.”

Kafka hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. “That conversation we had awhile back. About things involving you… letting go.” 

“…Kafka.” 

“Yes?”

“You’re not being subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yes, you were.” Acheron said. “You’re incapable of asking about anything directly.”

Kafka shifted her weight on her heels, “This is merely a hypothetical, Peaches.”

“Kafka.”

“I’m just curious. It’s an idle question.”

“It isn’t.”

“No. It isn’t.” Kafka swallowed, hating herself for even broaching this topic with Acheron.

“…What’s the issue, Kafka?”

“It’s …not that I don’t want to. I think about it more than I’d like to admit. It’s just …hard to unlearn something that kept you alive. I’m not used to being that open.”

“…I know.”

Kafka’s hand tightens around the edge of the counter, “How did you get there?”

“I stopped thinking of it as …something being taken from me. And I started thinking of it as something I was giving to her. On my own terms, with someone who had earned it.”

“Something earned, hm?”

“Yes, for her allowing me to be known.”

“I’m not good at being known.” Kafka says, “You of all people should know that, Acheron.” 

“You don’t have to be good at it… you just have to let her see you anyway.” Acheron replies, “I didn’t like it at first… not with everything that had happened. And, I still don’t most of the time. It was always easier to just… do things for her. Stay in control of what I could.”

Kafka blinked. That rang a little too close to home. “Right…”

Acheron shifted again, “She never asked me to give her anything. Not really. She just left the space open enough for me to offer it.”

Kafka closed her eyes. “And that worked?”

“Eventually. She’s patient… maddeningly so.”

“…Hmm.” 

Acheron’s voice dropped even lower. “Are you scared she’ll see something you can’t control?”

Kafka gave a short, bitter laugh. “She already has.”

“Then you’re already past the hardest part.”

“I just… keep thinking I can handle it. Whatever it is. But I don’t know anymore. I keep pretending it’s not… breaking me. But it is.”

Acheron’s tone softens, “You’re still pretending, huh?”

Kafka smirks faintly, though it’s bitter. “I’ve always been good at it, haven’t I? Or I thought I was.”

“Perhaps.” Acheron sighs, “You want me to hear whatever’s wrong without trying to fix it. But you also want me to know what you’re not saying. Kafka…” Acheron’s voice is low, knowing. “You don’t get to keep doing this to yourself. You know that, right?”

Kafka’s grip tightens on the phone, taking another puff of her cigarette, “Honestly… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you.” Acheron replies, her words blunt, but without judgment. “But pretending’s not helping. So, what’s this really about?” 

Kafka’s chest tightens as she thinks. There’s so much she wants to say, but can’t. “I feel like I’m always caught between what happened and what I can’t make happen. And all of it is just… tangled. I didn’t think it would still be like this.”

“You’re carrying more than you should.”

“Yes, but I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning in it. I feel like I should just be able to just… let it go.”

“You can’t let it go, not just like that.”

Kafka turns around and leans against the fridge, “I just …I don’t know who I am when it’s not all on me.”

“You know who you are.” Acheron says, “But you can’t keep being the only one who has to fix it all. You’re allowed to need something more than just getting by.”

“I guess… I just feel like I’m still waiting for something to change.”

Acheron’s voice softens for a moment, just enough to show a flicker of care. “Sometimes the waiting’s the hardest part. But you’ve already done it, Kafka. You’ve lived through it. Now, you just need to let it run its course.”

Kafka closes her eyes, the weight of her emotions threatening to break through. “I don’t know …if I’m strong enough for this.”

“You’ve been strong for longer than you think.” Acheron murmurs. “You’re just not used to needing someone else to carry some of it.”

Kafka swallows, “Maybe I just need someone to remind me… it’s okay not to be okay all the time. Maybe I want to let go of it for a while. Let someone else do the thinking for me.”

“And you think that’s possible after all this time? Letting someone else carry it for you?”

Kafka’s eyes shift to look into the darkness of the room, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just too tired to carry it anymore.”

The words hang between them for a long time, heavy in the air. Acheron doesn’t rush to speak. She never does. She knows exactly what Kafka means—knows the weight of the burden Kafka’s been carrying for far too long.

“Kafka… you’ve never been one to let anyone carry your weight. Not anyone.”

“I just… don’t know how to stop running, Acheron. Not even from this.” Kafka rubs her temple. “I just… I keep thinking about what happened. About how it all just fell apart so fast. And no matter how much I try to look at it from every angle, I can’t figure out where the break was. Or if there even was a break. Maybe I just never saw it coming.” Kafka shifts again, “…Himeko reached out to me recently.” 

“…So is this about her? Or about Stelle?” Acheron asks, “Or is it a mixture of the two?” 

“I’m not sure. I just… feel like I’m caught within something that I can’t get out of.”

“…You can’t cut the string and expect it all to just fall away.”

“I know. It’s just… I want it to make sense. Or… or maybe for it all to stop making sense.”

“You’re not going to get that.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore. I don’t even know if I can do anything. Or if I want to.” Kafka’s eyes fall shut, a feeling of fullness settling into her chest, “I just don’t know what to do with all of this.”

Acheron’s voice is quiet now, but it carries that edge of knowing, the tone that feels like a long history being pulled through the present. “You don’t have to do anything, Kafka.”

“Maybe… maybe I just need someone…”

“…Someone who knows what it’s like to carry that weight?”

Kafka swallows hard, her heart heavy in her chest. “Maybe.”

Acheron’s voice is more definite now. “If you need to untangle it, you can. But you’re the one who has to do it.”

Kafka doesn’t answer right away. She stands there, the silence stretching between them in a way that feels like understanding in its purest form. When she finally speaks, it’s quieter than before. But there’s a sense of something settled, a sense of peace in her tone.

“…You ever sit in a room with someone and realize you’re not actually there?”

“Most rooms, some people.” 

“Mm, I thought so.” 

“Has Stelle said something that made you think that?”

“No… I just didn’t think I’d still be carrying this into everything with her.” 

“We don’t drop things, Kafka. We just rearrange the weight.”

“You sound like you’ve practiced that line.”

“It’s something my therapist has said to me.” Acheron admits with a gentle laugh, “If you’re asking me if the weight gets easier, it doesn’t. But, sometimes someone comes along and they don’t mind helping you carry it. Even if they don’t understand all of what it is.” 

“And what do I do when they ask?”

“Then tell them the truth when you’re ready.”

“And if I never am?” Kafka asks, her voice sounding tired. 

There was a pause, a faint creak of the mattress as Acheron shifted. Kafka imagined her sitting up now, elbow on her knee, fingers pressed to her temple like the question physically weighed something.

“…Then don’t let her go.” Acheron replies, “You’ll figure it out. Or… you won’t.”

Kafka frowned. “That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

“Good.” Acheron says, “I wasn’t trying to be.”

“…Thanks.” Kafka ashes out her cigarette, “I should let you get back to sleep.” 

“You should talk to her.”

“Good night, Acheron.”

“And you should also should stop calling me for emotional support at asinine hours during the night.”

“No promises.”

Acheron pauses, before adding in softly, “…Just make sure to call me again before the next crisis arises, would you?”

“I’ll consider it, Peaches.” As an afterthought, Kafka adds, “Oh, and one more thing?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Black Swan that tea she made was terrible. I couldn’t stomach more than two sips.” 

Acheron actually laughs—quietly and raspy—as if she were trying to be as quiet as possible, “She used to make it for me when my nightmares were bad.”

“It tasted like boiled moss and regret.”

“A placebo perhaps? I think it was the fact that she cared enough to make it for me to begin with is what actually helped.” 

“I poured the rest down the sink. Forgive me for not echoing your sentimentality.”

“Of course not. You just called me in the middle of the night to complain about tea.”

“Exactly.”

“…Sleep, Kafka.”

Kafka hums, low and noncommittal. “You too.”

Kafka ends the call and stares down at her phone for a moment. She returns to the bedroom and sits at the edge of the bed, hands folded between her thighs. The call with Acheron ended a few minutes ago, but it feels like it’s been ages. Time always feels warped this late at night.

Stelle lies asleep with her back turned toward Kafka, her breath soft and steady. Kafka studies her quietly for a moment, remembering the ridiculous cake cat T-shirt she had worn to bed that night. As Kafka silently gazes at her, a terrible and hollow ache begins to bloom within her chest. The one that always comes after she lowers the mask, reeling at the splinters it leaves deeply embedded within her skin. 

Kafka wonders, how much of herself is even capable of being known—really known. Between all that she said, and everything that she hadn’t, Acheron had understood regardless. Silence, in their language, often carried more weight than confession.

But, Stelle doesn’t speak that language yet. And Kafka hopes that she never does. Because she doesn’t know how to teach it without reaching into Stelle’s chest and breaking every last one of her ribs open until she finally comes to understand it. 

“…You’re not a replacement.” She murmurs out into the dark, “You’re not a bandage and you’re not the antidote to what came before. I’m just… still bleeding, that’s all.”

…And I’m still searching for a way to stop it.

The overhead light in the bedroom glowed low and golden, illuminating the gentle mess of blankets Kafka had curled herself into.

Stelle had just finished getting ready for her shift—black jeans, black turtleneck, and combat boots. Her hair was pulled back, eyeliner smudged around her eyes. She turns away from Kafka’s vanity after trying to get a stray piece of hair to lay, looking at the lump Kafka forms within the bed. She smiles softly, advancing toward her.

“I’m only working half a shift tonight, but…” Stelle murmured, leaning down to adjust the blanket over Kafka’s shoulders. “You’ll text me if you need anything?”

Kafka let her gaze drift toward the wall. “You’ll be at the bar.”

“And I can leave the bar if it’s an emergency.” Before Kafka could protest, Stelle pressed a soft kiss to her temple—then one to her cheek, then her forehead.

“You’re warm.” She mumbled. “Stop touching me before I melt.”

“That’s the idea.” Stelle grinned, “I’ll be back soon.” She kissed Kafka one last time, this time on the lips, then pulled the blanket up a little more before slipping out of the bedroom.

…Love you.

The apartment falls into silence as the front door closes and locks as Stelle leaves. Kafka buries into the softness of her pillow, frowning at the blanket wrapped around her. There was a strange sense of longing that she couldn’t quite shake.

The soft hum of silence was broken only by the shuffle of Kafka’s tired feet as she dragged herself out of bed, pulled her robe on, grabbed her phone, and headed for the hallway. She pauses in the archway, staring across the way at the front door. Lingering, hoping that Stelle had forgotten something so she would come back, and would see her standing there and start fussing with Kafka to get back into bed.

She snorted to herself at the thought, “You’ve gotten too soft.”

She sat down on the couch and glanced at the clock that hung over the TV—9:09PM. Kafka reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out her phone—there was already a text from Stelle.

S: On the train! There’s a man in my car dressed up like Clockie swinging on a pole like a drunken stripper. Think he knows Boothill?

Kafka snorted, curling her legs up underneath her and lounging on the couch. She sets her phone down in the space beside her and leans forward toward the coffee table to reach for the remote, turning on the TV. She absentmindedly flips through a couple of channels, looking for something to watch, before turning on one of her streaming services and scrolling through the endless list of selections. As she settles in with some random nature documentary, her phone buzzes again—another text from Stelle.

S: Made it to work! First order of the night came from some man who ordered a gin and tonic and asked me if we do “gluten-free water”. What a nut—he still tipped me three credits, though.

Kafka rolled her eyes with a soft laugh.

K: That’s more than I would have given you.

S: Rude. You’re lucky I kissed you before I left. 

Kafka smiled briefly before setting her phone back down and turned her attention back to the nature documentary. The narrator was going on about the ‘golden spidery blooms of the witch hazel’ when Kafka received another text from Stelle. 

S: Someone just ordered a drink that they called ‘the screaming alpaca’. I looked it up and I don’t think it’s real. So I just gave him a glass of pineapple juice with tequila and jalapeños. Said he loved it. 

Kafka winced, texting a reply.

K: Was there a collective drug orgy that occurred somewhere tonight, with your bar designated as the place for the after party?

S: Dunno, don’t care. I’m thinking about how I miss your face instead. Are you still in your bed being tragic and beautiful?

K: Beautiful, yes. Tragic, debatable. 

She pauses and then sends another text.

K: I might doze off. If I don’t reply, don’t get mugged. Or arrested. Or allergic to anything stupid.

S: So you do care :3.

K: Don’t make me come down there.

S: Please do. All dramatically. In your trench coat. Slow walk through into the bar and make someone drop a drink just by looking at them.

Kafka rolled her eyes, but let her fingers hover over the screen for a moment before setting the phone down. Kafka smirked, letting her head rest back on the arm of the sofa. Eventually, as the nature documentary drones on softly in the background, her eyes begin to droop as she nodded off. Another ping from her phone rouses Kafka from sleep at around 11PM.

S: Okay the rush has ended and I’m bored at work. Think I’m gonna start a conga line, just to see who joins in. 

K: Please don’t.

S: Also, some guy just asked for a “vodka pineapple with no vodka”. I think he just wanted juice. I made him pay for it anyway lol

Another text pinged a few moments later.

S: Miss you. That’s gross right? I’m being gross. Hope you manage to sleep soon though :).

Kafka read the messages and her chest ached—from a latent sense of gratitude that someone would send such ridiculous, stupid, loving things. 

K: The juice one made me laugh. I’m not admitting it again.

Then, she adds. 

K: Miss you too. Make sure to come home in one piece.

Kafka pulled the throw blanket from off the head of the couch, wrapping it around her and settling in as the nature documentary continued to play on the TV. She tucked her phone into the space beside her, pretending not to smile. And still—beneath the blanket, alone in the apartment—Kafka felt something soft settle in her chest. 

Another hour or so passed and Stelle finally got off work, making her way back to Kafka’s apartment. She stepped through the threshold just shy of 2AM, quietly letting herself in and locking the door behind her. Stelle stripped off her jacket and toed off her shoes. The only light on was a small lamp in the corner of the living room—and there was Kafka, curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

Her glasses had been set aside on the coffee table. One arm of the frame was loosely folded, the other skewed like she hadn’t bothered lining it up properly. Kafka’s face was turned toward the back cushions, her hair slightly mussed, with one hand tucked under her cheek. The blanket had slipped halfway off her shoulders. Stelle’s heart squeezed seeing her like that. Small and vulnerable, in a way Kafka almost never allowed herself to be. 

Carefully, Stelle tugged the blanket back up, smoothing it gently over Kafka’s shoulders without disturbing her. She pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. For a moment, Stelle just stood there watching her breathe. Then, she knelt beside the couch and rested her chin lightly on the edge of the cushions.

“Night, Kafybean.”

Stelle flopped over onto her back and stretched out on the floor beside the couch. She tucked her arm under her head, and closed her eyes.

Here in this place—in the middle of the night while she listened to Kafka softly breathing beside her—she felt more at home than she had anywhere else in the world.

The weekend comes once more, bringing with it boredom and more snow. In the early evening, Stelle watches Kafka as she stands in front of her balcony, arms folded over her chest and staring out at Penacony’s skyline. 

The snow has dulled into a quiet hush once more, the skies above looking clear, but grey. Stelle rises from the couch, walking over to where Kafka stands and loops her arms around her waist, pulling her in for a hug. 

“I was thinking...”

Kafka slowly turns to look at her, raising an eyebrow. 

“What if we didn’t stay here tonight?”

“You mean you’re loosening my restraints and allowing me to leave the apartment? Without my chains and your omnipresent, watchful gaze?” 

Stelle laughs, “You’re not a prisoner, silly.” 

“You still haven’t told me where my keys are.” 

“Have you tried looking recently?” 

Kafka shrugs, “I’ve lost interest.” She tilts her head to the side, “Where did you have in mind?” 

“My place,” Stelle says with a wide smile, “March 7th’s been whining about how boring her week’s been and how I’m never home. I thought… we could crash there and have a surprise sleepover, you know? It’ll be like one of those old high school romcoms, but less straight.”

Kafka stares at her for a long moment, “You want to drag me out into the cold to sit on a couch next to your roommate who refers to me as the creepy crow lady, and sleep in that tiny bed of yours with you at the end of the night?” 

“Yes. Exactly that. I’ll even let you steal my sweatpants and my good blanket.” Stelle says, “I just thought… maybe it’d be nice to be somewhere else tonight. Somewhere with dumb energy and a tiny bit of chaos.”

Kafka leans back against her for a second, “Do I even have the choice of saying no?” 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Stelle grins, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “C’mon. Let’s go ruin March’s evening.”

Kafka sighs, folding underneath Stelle’s enthusiasm, as she pulls her away from the doors of the balcony and pushes her to her impending doom.

The ride on the train to Stelle’s apartment is short and without incident. 

Kafka sits next to Stelle, sunglasses firmly fixed over her eyes, while Stelle buzzes with excitement beside her. Kafka crosses her arms, her shoulders sagging as she sighs once more. Yet, even with all her annoyance, she can’t deny how much Stelle’s infectious and bright smile pulls at her heart. When they arrive at their stop, Stelle gleefully grabs Kafka’s hand and pulls her along. 

Stelle’s apartment resides in one of the quieter parts of town, nestled somewhere between the city center and the beginning of suburban sprawl. Kafka watches as Stelle politely greets one of her neighbors as they pass one another in the building’s lobby. She gives a curt nod of acknowledgment as the woman and her child exit through the lobby’s doors.

Stelle stops to check her mailbox, leaving Kafka behind in front of the elevators. She returns, frowning and waving a stack of envelopes in her hands—bills and student loan repayment notices. Kafka can only chuckle when she says—I hate adulting—when the elevator finally comes. 

They reach Stelle’s floor and Stelle pulls Kafka along, trying to keep the momentum from dying. Upon reaching the front door, Stelle opens her tote bag and begins rummaging around for her keys, frowning when she can’t find them. 

“What’s wrong?” Kafka asks her. 

“In all my excitement to get you over here…” Stelle sighs, her shoulders sagging as she looks up at the ceiling above them, “…I forgot to swap the keys on my keyring for my own keys… instead of the ones for your place.”

Kafka snorts, “Some warden you are. Aren’t you supposed to keep all of those in one place?” 

“March works from home, so I never really bother to bring them to begin with. But…” Stelle shrugs, raising her hand to knock on the door. She calls out to her, “March! It’s me!”

There were footsteps coming from inside, then the door cracked open—just a sliver. March 7th’s face appeared, hair mussed from the pink mesh shower headband on top of her head, “You’re back! Thank god. The plumbing made a crazy noise and I thought I was gonna—” Her voice cut off as she opened the door a little wider and registered the smaller, sleek figure behind Stelle. 

Kafka, in all black. Coat half open, still wearing her sunglasses. There was a hint of a smile on her face, or perhaps it was a smirk. 

“…Hi.” Kafka deadpanned. 

March 7th shrieked. She didn’t scream—she shrieked. It was a high-pitched and sharp sound, reminiscent of a cartoon character being surprised by something. She didn’t ask any questions, didn’t give a retort. She slammed the door on the both of them, quickly turning both of the locks as the door rattled on its hinges. 

“…Well, that went well.” Kafka said dryly, pulling her sunglasses off of her face and folding them up to tuck into her coat pocket, “A truly glamorous start to the occasion.” 

“Sorry, I think she thought you were like—an apparition or something.” Stelle mutters, knocking again.

“She screamed like one of us was holding a chainsaw.” Kafka corrected her. 

Stelle sighed, “March? Would you open the door? It’s fine. She’s not here to assassinate you.”

From behind the door, March 7th lets out another squeak, “HOW—could you bring the SCARY MAFIA GHOST LADY here—without WARNING MEEEEEEEE?!”

“She’s not scary, she’s Kafka!” Stelle tries to reassure her.

“That’s worse!”

Kafka leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the door, biting back a smile. “She’s not entirely wrong though.”

“You’re really not helping.” Stelle snapped, watching as Kafka’s shoulders shook with laughter. She turned back to the door, “March. Come on.” 

“Stelle—I’m looking at you through the peep hole. Blink twice if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine!” Stelle exclaims. “We just… decided to come here instead of staying at her place. I thought it’d be fun. You know—a sleepover!”

There’s a long, judgment-filled pause from March 7th. She asks, “With her?”

Kafka folds her arms. “I can hear you.”

The locks on the door click as it slowly creaks open—but March 7th still has the security latch on the door. She appears in the gap, eyes narrowed like she’s checking for solicitors or cult members. She blinks, eyes shifting from Stelle, then to Kafka who moves into view behind her. 

March 7th gestures Kafka, “Is she carrying a gun?”

Kafka tilts her head to the side, “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

“No!” March 7th screeches, hands ready to slam the door in their faces once more. 

“She’s not carrying a gun.” Stelle says with the tone of someone who isn’t totally sure.

March 7th doesn’t relent, “…You swear she’s not armed?”

Kafka lifted her coat to reveal absolutely nothing but very expensive fabric.

March 7th squinted. “That coat could hide so many knives.”

“While I prefer guns, I promise you I'm only carrying mild disdain tonight.” Kafka said sweetly.

“…So this isn’t a hostage situation?” March asks flatly, blinking at Kafka.

“She invited me,” Kafka says dryly, gesturing toward Stelle.

“Technically, I ambushed her with kindness.” Stelle corrects.

“And we brought wine.” Kafka says, her eyes sparkling with suggestive mischief, “The sweet type that I know your kind likes.”

March 7th huffs, “My kind? Just what is that supposed to mean?”

Kafka shrugs, “What you should really be asking yourself is if you’re going to turn down free wine. That wouldn’t—“

The door closes for a moment as March 7th releases the latch. She sighs as she opens the door, glances at Stelle and then narrows her eyes at Kafka again, “Fine—you can stay. But if you try to eat my face in the middle of the night, hypnotize me or like… seduce my throw pillows, I’m kicking you out.”

Kafka tilts her head. “You think I could seduce your pillows?”

March 7th furrows her upper lip, stepping to the side to let them come inside. “You know you could.”

Stelle beams like she just won a prize at a carnival and reaches for Kafka’s hand to pull her along. She drops the large duffle bag she had packed for them at the door and pauses in the foyer as March 7th closes the door.

“I just literally got done with washing my face and was about to settle in for the night with Excel Saga. Continuing on in my solo marathon of absurdist 2000s anime.”

“Even better.” Stelle says, kicking off her boots and following March 7th into the kitchen, “We’ll continue it with you.”

Kafka hears the words—anime—and tries not to wince. She had never been a fan of the stuff while living in Izumo, thinking it to be loud and childish. And to be subjected to it now… well. She would just grin and bear it. All for the sake of love. …Or something.

Kafka bends over to unzip her high heeled boots and takes them off. She eyes the living room as she moves further into the space—there’s a wall calendar covered in doodles and photos tacked to a cork board—Stelle with March 7th, Stelle with Dan Heng, blurry shots of the three of them together taken on a Polaroid in the heat of summer.

There’s the mess of fuzzy and bright colored throw blankets on the couch, anime figurines on bookshelves, and the second-hand coffee table with the chip in the corner as she remembered. But, what she doesn’t remember are the two wide little eyes peering up at her with curiosity from underneath the couch.

A small furry little being covered in white and black patches zooms out from underneath the couch and promptly disappears down the hallway, out of sight. 

“Did you break the cat?” March 7th snaps from behind her, carrying a bowl of popcorn in her hands as she walks into the living room.

“I didn’t even look at it,” Kafka replies. She looks at Stelle as she comes into the space carrying the bottle of moscato they brought along, a corkscrew, and a six pack of sodas, “Since when do you have a cat?”

“Oh, right. Guess it’s been awhile since you’ve… been here.” Stelle says, pretending she doesn’t see the look March 7th gives her and remembers the last time Kafka had come over, “March found the little guy wandering about and starving outside a couple of months ago. Didn’t have the heart to just leave him, so we kinda took him in.” She leaves the living room once again to go and retrieve more snacks and some wine glasses from the kitchen.

“Yeah—I saved him and he barely gives me the time of day except to hiss at me or meow pathetically when he wants food.” March sets the bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table and turns her attention back to Kafka, “Are you just gonna wear that coat all night like some type of haunted opera singer or what?”

Kafka sighs and shrugs her coat off of her shoulders, “Depends on how terrible your show is.”

“Oh, you’re gonna love it.” Stelle says as she reappears with a bag of chips in her arm and three empty wine glasses fitted between her fingers with practiced ease. She throws the chips onto the coffee table and carefully orients the glasses on the table in front of their respective recipients.  

“…What’s it about?” Kafka asks, leaning forward to grab the bottle of moscato and ripping the foil off the top. 

March 7th flops dramatically onto the couch and answers before Stelle can, “It’s about a hyperactive girl who’s always screaming about nonsense and wants to conquer the world. It’s unhinged, but brilliant. And probably ruined my ability to form coherent romantic relationships.”

“It’s also extremely loud.” Stelle adds as she waves Kafka’s hand away and goes to pop the cork on the bottle of moscato. She twists the corkscrew into the bottle with a little grunt. “And kind of a satire, maybe? Nobody really knows.”

Kafka arches a brow, “So it’s an animated assault on the senses.”

“Exactly.” March 7th says, pointing a finger at her. “But an intentional one.”

“Charming.” Kafka deadpans, watching Stelle pour her a modest glass of wine. She leans over and glances toward the hallway, “And the cat?”

“His name is Pom-Pom.” March 7th says, flatly.

Kafka stares. “That’s not a name. That’s a fluffy accessory.”

Stelle bursts out laughing. “I wanted to name him Trash Cake. March said it was too on the nose.”

“He eats plastic bags and makes aggressive eye contact when he’s licking his butt. Give him a little bit of decency, would you?”

“He’s selective.” Stelle says, “Give him a bit, he might warm up to you.”

“I’m not particularly charming to animals.” Kafka mutters, taking a sip of her wine.

“Neither am I.” March 7th says as she picks up the remote to start the episode, “He just hates me for sport.”

The anime starts up on the TV, chaotic and fast. Characters scream in distorted voices—HAILLLLL ILPALAZZOOO—spinning in somersaults and dying when they appear on screen. There’s a chase scene, a woman coughing up blood and fainting constantly. A poor dog that’s callously referred to as an emergency food source. Kafka closes her eyes, feeling a headache slowly beginning to bud within her temples.

“This… is incomprehensible.”

“Welcome to the sleepover.” Stelle clinks their glasses together and smiles. “I told you this would be fun.”

“Is this … supposed to be one of the traditions?” Kafka murmurs to Stelle, genuinely unsure. “I’ve never really done this sort of thing before.”

“You’re kidding.” Stelle replies.

“I’m not.” Kafka answers. There’s something oddly fragile in the way she says it, like it’s a joke told with too much sincerity.

“What?” March 7th asks from the other side of Stelle.

Kafka sat stiffly at the edge of the couch, her legs folded in a way that made her look like she was still ready to leave at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t like she could say the truth as to why. Within her memories of velvet-draped rooms where silence was law. Of sleeping with a pillow over her head because two floors down, someone might be screaming in the basement again. 

“I just… never had the chance to.” Kafka said after a long silence, “Not when I was younger. Not ever.”

“Not even once? You’ve never watched terrible anime with a group of friends or played video games until your eyes bled at 3AM?” March 7th asks her.

Kafka gave her a look that was vaguely condescending, “No. Growing up in my household… we didn’t have that kind of entertainment.”

“Well, you do now. You’re stuck here, Kafka. And the next episode is even better.” Stelle leaned in with a grin, “There’s aliens. Called Puchus—and all they say is puchu. Like deranged little Pokemon.”

Kafka looked down at the wine in her hands like it was something new. Then she glanced at Stelle and muttered, “This is… very stupid.”

“Yeah,” Stelle replied, beaming. “But isn’t it great?”

Stelle’s room was small, cozy, and chaotic. Posters on the walls, a cluttered desk, and a twin-sized bed that groaned when someone sat on it. The blankets were warm and smelled faintly like citrus body wash and laundry detergent.

Kafka laid on her back, with Stelle curled up beside her. Her breaths were shallow and even, with her cheek pressed to Kafka’s shoulder, one arm flung clumsily across her stomach. She had been lying there for a long time. Her eyes open and watching the shadows that danced across the ceiling from the streetlights that filtered in from the gaps in the blinds.

Kafka was... stuck again. Too many thoughts pooling in her chest, too many old ghosts lying beside her in a bed meant for one. She’d made it all the way through childhood and most of adulthood without ever knowing what it was like to lie like this beside someone, doing nothing at all.

And yet here she was, barely breathing, in a bed that wasn’t hers.

“Stelle.” She whispered into the darkness, barely audible but to the two of them.

Stelle stirred, her lashes fluttering, “Mm?”

“…Are you awake?”

“Kinda…” Stelle murmured sleepily, “Something on your mind? …Do you need me to hold your hand and …lead you down the hallway to the bathroom or somethin’?”

Kafka ignores her teasing, “Stelle. I… I didn’t do this growing up.”

"Hm?"

“Sleepovers. Sharing a bed with someone. Talking and giggling like fools after the lights had been turned off.” She murmurs.

Stelle blinked, confused in her half-awake state. “That’s okay…”

“No.” Kafka said softly. “I just mean… I don’t really know how to be here. Not without thinking I have to give something back to earn it.”

Stelle shifted closer, sleepily tightening her arm around Kafka’s waist. “You don’t have to do anything. Just be here. …That’s all I want.”

Kafka didn’t speak again for a while. She just watched the shadows crawl across the ceiling and let Stelle’s warmth remind her that she was still allowed to be held—without owing anything in return.

She listened to the soft, unconscious noises Stelle made as she drifted in and out of sleep. Tiny sighs, the occasional murmur. The warmth of her wrapped around Kafka’s side, her hand resting gently on Kafka’s ribcage beneath her shirt. It should’ve been soothing. But the quiet made it harder to hold back the thoughts and the memories. The edges she kept sharpened and hidden under silk coats and casual smirks.

“…I used to think people like you only existed in books.” Kafka said at last, her voice hushed and low.

Stelle stirred, blinking herself half-awake. “People like me?”

“Soft.” Kafka said simply. “Bright. The kind that talks to random strangers and tries to make them laugh. Who stay up too late watching cartoons. A person that has a favorite color or a favorite snack. Someone who still believes… in good things.”

Stelle didn’t answer right away, and Kafka thought maybe she’d fallen back asleep. But then she felt her shift, a bit more alert now. “That’s just… normal stuff, isn’t it?”

Kafka exhaled a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “It’s not normal where I’m from.” Kafka kept her eyes on the ceiling, “When I was little, I used to pretend I was someone else at night. Someone who had friends. Someone who didn’t flinch when the floor creaked outside my door…” …Someone who doesn’t know what plastic wrap sounds like when it’s peeled off a body. She turned to look at Stelle. “Don’t say sorry…” Kafka said preemptively, a small, almost bitter smile playing at her lips. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll say something kind.”

“I wasn’t going to, I was just… listening.”

Kafka swallowed—that might’ve been worse.

“Stelle, I used to lie awake all night as a kid…” She murmured. “Even when everything was quiet, I still couldn’t sleep. I’d try to count how long it took until the sun started coming up. Sometimes I’d make it to four or five. Sometimes I didn’t.” Kafka’s eyes lower, “I’d listen to my father’s footsteps pacing around downstairs. It was always loud, there were always people around for some reason or another.” She continues on, “Once, I heard a woman screaming. …I don’t know if it was her idea to be there or not. I just… turned my face to the wall and waited for it to stop.” Kafka sighs, “…I don’t tell people these things about me, Stelle. Not because I’m ashamed. But because people don’t know how to deal with a story like mine.” Kafka turns her head. In the half-light, she could see the outline of Stelle’s lashes, the glint of her golden eyes open now and watching her carefully, “I don’t want to be a story that you pity.”

“You’re not.” Stelle murmured, continuing to brush her hand across Kafka’s abdomen. “You’re someone I admire. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

There was something painfully earnest in the way Stelle held her gaze. Not trying to comfort her. Not trying to fix it. Just there—unflinching, present, and warm. Kafka was used to silence after confessions like this. Awkward glances, redirected conversations. Or worse—cheap words meant to soothe. But Stelle wasn’t doing any of that. She was just there, hand moving slowly beneath Kafka’s shirt, thumb dragging lazy circles over her skin like she belonged there.

“You deserve more…” Stelle said, voice barely a murmur, “The feeling of softness. The desire of being wanted.”

Kafka let the moment linger, unsure of how to breathe. But for once, she didn’t feel like she had to perform. She could just lie there, just be. And it was more terrifying than anything else she’d known.

“…Kafka.”

Kafka shifted on the pillow, still staring at Stelle in the darkness. 

“Let me be inside you tonight…”

Kafka’s breath hitched softly but she didn’t speak. She could feel her pulse quickening in her wrists, her ribs, and between her thighs. 

Stelle closed the distance between them as she pressed a chaste kiss to Kafka’s lips, then lower on her jaw. Kafka went still, her lips parted around a breath that never quite made it out. Her eyes fluttered upward, meeting Stelle’s gaze just inches above her—calm, steady, and asking without demanding.

“Stelle…” 

Stelle removed her hand out from under Kafka’s shirt and reached up to gently stroke her cheek, “You don’t have to say yes. You don’t owe me anything tonight. I just… I want all of you. Every part. Even the places you keep guarded the most.”

There was silence again, broken only by the soft rhythm of their breathing, the distant sound of a car passing along on the quiet street below. Kafka reached up and brushed a strand of hair from Stelle’s face, thumb grazing her temple.

“…Okay.” Kafka said at last, her voice just above a whisper.

Stelle leaned in to kiss her again, softer this time—like she was afraid Kafka might change her mind if she moved too fast. Like she understood exactly what this meant. Like she would take her time, like she wouldn’t rush. Kafka’s body trembled as she felt Stelle reach below, her hand splaying over the expanse of soft skin and quivering bone. 

Let her in, Kafka.

Stelle’s hand moved lower, slipping gently beneath the waistband of Kafka’s pajama bottoms. She paused—waiting for any sign, any word that might tell her to stop. Kafka’s breath hitched, and her eyes fluttered shut. She wasn’t trembling from fear. No, it was from something else—something deeper. The weight of being seen. Of being opened. 

“…Why do you hesitate whenever you touch me?” Kafka whispered, her eyes opening to mere slits, “Do you think I haven’t been touched before?” 

“I think …you’ve been touched by people who didn’t know how to listen.” Stelle replies, her hand dipping lower. She felt a  brief twitch in Kafka’s hips, “But I do.” Stelle whispered, brushing her lips down Kafka’s neck. “I hear you. Even when you don’t say anything.”

And when her hand slipped beneath the fabric and found heat and softness, Kafka let out the smallest sound—like something was caught in her throat. Kafka’s thighs parted, subconsciously, as if Stelle barely had to ask. She softly grabbed at Stelle’s wrist as her chest sank, back grounding down into the bed. It wasn’t to stop Stelle—but to hold onto her. To find something steady to anchor her.

Kafka gasped softly, her body finally responding to something she hadn’t let herself want for years. Her head tipped back, lashes fluttering shut, and for a moment she forgot about the ghosts. Forgot about the creaking stairs, the woman’s scream, the cold stare of a man she’d once called her father. Stelle touched her like she was trying to memorize her—every inch, every tremble. Just Kafka, coming undone beneath her hands in the quiet safety of a cluttered room that smelled like citrus and Stelle. 

There was only this—there only needed to be this. The warmth of Stelle’s hand and the hush of her name on Kafka’s lips. 

“...Just stay with me. Let me show you what it feels like to want nothing from you. Nothing but this—just you.” Stelle whispered.

Kafka’s breath came uneven, catching in her throat as Stelle’s fingers traced deliberate, searching paths between her legs. The first few strokes of Stelle’s fingers weren’t even about pleasure—just contact. Reassurance. A silent reminder to Kafka—I’m here, and I’m not going to hurt you.

Kafka’s grip on Stelle’s wrist stayed firm, but her hips betrayed her. They lifted just barely, chasing sensation she wouldn’t admit she wanted. Her eyes were still closed, brow furrowed, lips parted in something like disbelief. Her hips shifted again, thighs parting wider as Stelle’s fingers lightly brushed her clit. Permission, letting go of pride.

Stelle turned, pressing her hips tightly against the side of Kafka’s thigh. Her fingers slid deeper into warm and dewy slickness, knowing exactly where to press. She coaxed Kafka open with slow, firm strokes. Never rushing, never asking Kafka to be anything more in that moment. 

And Kafka—aching and silent—simply let her. Kafka’s breathing faltered as her grip on Stelle’s wrist fell slack, her body gradually opening under each gentle rub and soft stroke of Stelle’s fingers against her. Almost like she didn’t know how to respond, but she needed to learn. 

“You’re so quiet…” Stelle whispered, kissing the edge of Kafka’s throat. “I want to hear you…”

Kafka shook her head, “I’ve never…”

She didn’t finish the thought, but Stelle understood what she was trying to say. She slowed, easing the pressure just slightly, her fingers delicately circling the edge. Kafka whimpered, her head lolling to the side on the pillow. The sound was small, almost strained. Her hips arched into Stelle’s palm as she cupped her gently, unable to stop the tensing in her thighs. Unable to stop the river of desire that continued to flow.

“I didn’t think…” Kafka continues, though she’s not sure if her words are making any sense, “I thought something was wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Stelle said as her fingers dipped lower and she curled her fingers against the hot slickness of Kafka’s entrance. 

Kafka let out a noise—strangled and raw—that went straight through her. Her body trembled as the tension inside her twisted tighter, her legs locked around Stelle’s arm before she could think to hide it. “Stelle, I—” Kafka choked, her breath ragged.

Stelle didn’t respond as she dragged her lips across the expanse of Kafka’s neck, her fingers slowly dancing on the edge, before dipping in. Kafka’s mouth parted with a gasping, breathless moan that seemed torn out of her. It was soft and beautiful—like something that was hidden for too long was finally let out into the light.

Kafka clung to Stelle as she pressed them down into the bed. Her head tipped back against the pillow, baring more of her throat. Kafka felt like she was in a daze when Stelle fully entered her, fingers gentle and exploring as they softly pulsed against her front wall.

When she arched off the bed, Stelle kissed her neck. When she gasped, Stelle pressed closer, going deeper inside of her. There was no teasing, no games. Only pressure where it was needed, only stillness where it mattered. Kafka had never felt anything so intimate in her life—not just the touch, but the patience of it all.

“Kafka…” Stelle whispered, her voice hoarse, “Look at me…” 

Kafka’s eyes fluttered open, dark and glassy. She looked up, her lips parted and cheeks flushed. She held Stelle’s gaze, unable to look away if she even tried.

“I’ve got you…” Stelle said, “So… just let go whenever you need to.”

Kafka’s thighs clenched as her hips shifted instinctively, chasing something that she hadn’t let anyone witness before—not like this. Not while she was laid bare in every sense of the word. She clings tighter to Stelle as she feels her fingers slide in and out of her, almost as if Stelle were trying to massage all of the tension out of her in this one single moment. Kafka bites down on her lower lip, stifling a groan as Stelle’s thumb brushes against her clit, stroking it with the same careful reverence. 

Kafka’s eyebrows knit together as Stelle’s thumb moved in slow, steady circles, matching the slow thrusting motion of her fingers. It was maddeningly soft, gently coaxing Kafka to the edge, more than demanding her to come. Like she was being lured out of hiding. Kafka’s hips jerked involuntarily, and she let out a noise that sounded almost like a sob.

“Don’t stop.” Kafka whispered, “Please, I—I want—”

“I know.” Stelle murmured, brushing her lips against Kafka’s temple. “I know…”

Kafka’s whole body was trembling—legs quivering, jaw tight. Every stroke inside of her sent a shiver down her spine. The graze of Stelle’s thumb against her most sensitive parts made her feel like she was unraveling at the seams. Her fingers clawed at Stelle’s shoulders, then her back, like she didn’t know where to hold on. She’d never made these kinds of sounds before. But they kept spilling out of her now—needy, and raw. And Stelle… she never looked away.

“You’re so close, aren’t you…” Stelle whispered, listening to Kafka’s panting turn desperate, “You’ve been holding on for so long…”

Kafka nodded, unable to speak. A whimper catches in her throat—uncharacteristically light and fleeting. The soft sound of her arousal feels jarring to her ears, like a foreign thing that her body had conjured. And it had laid dormant and untouched for so long. She shifts as if she’s trying to escape it, but Stelle follows her. Unrelenting, refusing to let go.

“Don’t fight it…” Stelle whispers to her, “Just let it come, Kafka. Let it go…”

Kafka squeezes her thighs together as Stelle plants a gentle kiss to her throat again, angling her fingers in deeper as she pins Kafka’s hips to the bed. The heat building inside of her is so unbearable, Kafka forgets the touch of the cold she spoke of not too long ago. Stelle’s fingers curl instinctively, as if she knows exactly where Kafka needs to be touched. Her thumb continues to move in slow circles, coaxing Kafka to let go. 

The tension in Kafka’s body winds so tight she feels like she might break apart from the inside. Her breath catches again, her lips trembling with the weight of a moan she can’t hold in anymore. When Stelle hears her, feeling the restless way that Kafka shifts underneath her, she chances going deeper. Stelle can feel her inside, gentle pulses of arousal and heat that bear down on her fingers. The gentle twitch, the change in pitch in Kafka’s voice, signifying that something was about to come.

And when it finally crests, Kafka shudders beneath Stelle with a breathless, near-silent gasp. Her thighs clamp around Stelle’s wrist, hips jolting once, twice, until her whole body convulses in quiet surrender. She chokes on a cry, barely able to make a sound beyond the wordless sobs that escape her mouth. 

Stelle doesn’t move. She just stays with her—fingers buried deep, lips soft against her neck. Kafka grips her tightly, like she’s afraid that if she lets go, she’ll fall through the floor and vanish into herself again. She can’t hear the soft words Stelle whispers to her through the maddening pounding of her heartbeat that floods her ears. Her eyes squeeze shut, her legs lock tight around Stelle, holding her there through the gentle waves that take her under.

When the feeling finally subsides, Kafka melts beneath her—breathing fast, eyes closed, tears pricking the corners. Kafka can’t speak. She just breathes, her body gradually going limp beneath the lingering rhythm of Stelle’s fingers slowly eases down inside of her. Sowly, Stelle slips her fingers free. Tenderly, as if she’s pulling them from somewhere sacred.

Her fingers brush lightly over Kafka’s hip, the curve of her waist, up to her ribs. She settles beside her, forehead resting against Kafka’s temple. There’s no movement, no need for questions or words. Just warmth.

Kafka’s lashes flutter open, her eyes wet and dazed, as she looks at the ceiling. Her limbs feel too soft, but it’s the ache in her chest that surprises her the most—not from pain, but from something unfamiliar. Something she doesn’t know how to name. She lies there, pliant and breathless—here in Stelle’s room, in her bed.

Of all the places where this could have happened… Kafka never meant for it to happen here.

It hadn’t happened in some hotel room with blackout curtains and cool, silk sheets. Not in a cold, curated apartment where Kafka knew every object, every angle, every possible exit. Not behind closed doors, held and subdued by red ropes. But here, in the raw and fragile softness of Stelle’s world. The one place she hadn’t expected to find safety.

Here—in Stelle’s tiny and cluttered room, with its mismatched sheets and too-small bed. With its stack of books on the floor and the half-dead succulent in the window. With the faint sound of the air purifier humming in the corner. Where a baseball cap rested on her desk, and a hoodie threatened to slip from a chair. 

Kafka stares at the ceiling and realizes—maybe this wasn’t about being touched at all. Maybe it was about finally letting someone in. Kafka lay there, still trembling faintly, as she continued to stare into the darkness. It shouldn’t have felt safe… but it did. 

“…Don’t move yet. Don’t speak.” Kafka whispered, “Just… stay as you are.”

There’s silence, the warmth of skin on skin, and the subtle, rhythmic thump of Kafka’s heartbeat slowly returning to earth. Stelle didn’t speak. She didn’t ask Kafka if she was okay. She didn’t try to fill the silence with reassurances or explanations. She just stayed, curled into her, one arm still tucked protectively across Kafka’s stomach. Kafka closed her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched her like this.

Kafka sighed. It was a low, tired sound that said more than words could. She didn’t want to speak. Because, if she did, the moment might shift. If she looked too closely, it might vanish.

“You…” Kafka murmured, “Your bed is too small.”

“Yeah…” Stelle chuckled, not even bothering to comment on Kafka’s signature deflection, “But there’s room for you.”

“So…” Kafka began, pulling away slightly, “…Is this what girl’s do at sleepovers?”

“Only the gay ones.”

“Sometimes the straight ones, too.” 

“…You’re probably right about that one.” 

Kafka let out a quiet laugh, letting her eyes close again. “I’m stealing your pillow.”

Stelle smiled against her hair. “You already did.”

Outside, the city carried on, indifferent to their tiny corner of the world. Kafka stayed where she was—wrapped in warmth and sheets that smelled like grapefruit and fresh linen, her heartbeat steady against another’s. Eventually, Kafka’s fingers curled around Stelle’s hand, slowly slipping into the depths of sleep.

“…You run hot.” Kafka murmured sleepily, falling under before she even heard Stelle’s reply.

Stelle hummed, nuzzling against her, “Mmm…”

…So do you.

Chapter Text

Kafka awoke to soft breathing on her hip. 

Still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, she felt a slight shift in the mattress as she stirred. Kafka blinked, disoriented and bleary eyed, as one hand blindly felt around for the edge of the bed.

And then, she felt it again—soft lips brushing against the dip of her pelvis—and a pair of familiar hands dragging slow lines along the sharp cut of her waist.

“Stelle?” 

A muffled hum answered her, followed by the unmistakable tug of fingers curling into elastic. Kafka flinched, sitting up too fast and nearly elbowed Stelle in the head as she threw the covers back.

“Don’t you dare.” She muttered, voice low and rough with sleep. Her hand reached down automatically, tangling in Stelle’s hair. But the girl only hummed against her skin, unbothered. 

“I’m just saying good morning.” Stelle said. She looked up at her, expression utterly unrepentant, as she rested her cheek on Kafka’s thigh, “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Say good morning with what? Your mouth?” Kafka snapped, clenching her teeth.

“Mm-hm. And—I was going to be gentle about it too.” Stelle murmured, sweetly as she reached for the waistband of Kafka’s bottoms again to try and start shimmying them further down her hips.

Kafka’s face flushed so fast it felt like her skin was betraying her. She caught Stelle’s wrist, yanking her arm away, “We’re not doing that right now.”

“But you’re so warm.” Stelle said with a pout, “And grumpy. I thought I’d fix it.”

Kafka scoffed. She looked down at the disarray of sheets and the softness of Stelle’s expression. This wasn’t some calculated seduction. It was casual and stupidly tender. She groaned and fell back onto the bed, dragging her hands over her face. 

“You’re going to make me hate mornings.”

“You already do.”

She felt Stelle’s fingers hook just under the waistband of her pants again—and that did it. Kafka sat up abruptly, shoving her back with a firm hand between the eyes, “Off.”

Stelle fell back with a laugh, eyes gleaming and unrepentant. “You’re no fun in the morning.”

“You’re trying to go down on someone who’s not even awake yet.” Kafka said flatly, adjusting the band of her pants.

“Fine, no breakfast in bed.” Stelle grinned wider, crawling back across the bed like a cat on the prowl, “Then I’ll just say hello up here instead.”

Kafka didn’t have time to ask what that meant, before Stelle descended again. She pounced on top of Kafka, straddling her hips and pinning her down playfully with her weight. Her hands slid up Kafka’s sides, pushing the loose hem of her shirt up. The air was cool against her skin as the shirt rose, baring the full swell of her breasts.

“Stelle—” Kafka started, but her voice caught in her throat.

Stelle didn’t even look up. Her thumbs ran along the underside of one breast like she was testing its softness, or admiring a sculpture she had every right to touch. She looked pleased with herself—too pleased. Kafka’s hand shot down, yanking the shirt back over her chest in one swift movement.

“Enough!” She yelled, this time with force. She twisted at the waist and shoved Stelle sideways.

Stelle let out a yelp as she was unceremoniously pushed off the edge of the bed, thudding against the side of the mattress with a shocked and gleeful laugh. Kafka sat up, hand clutched to her chest, her eyes narrowed. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the irritation still heating under her skin. Stelle lay there, dramatically sprawled out, head hanging off the side of the bed, and grinning like she’d won.

“I’ll take that as a maybe for tomorrow?” She asked while hanging upside-down.

Kafka rolled her eyes and flopped back into the pillows, one arm covering her face. “You’re lucky I didn’t break your ribs.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t finish the job.”

“Stelle.”

“Kidding. …Mostly.” Stelle didn’t get back up right away. She lay half off the bed, grinning stupidly to herself, “You know… you could have just let me show you a good morning.”

“And you could’ve kept your hands to yourself.”

“I did.” Stelle replied, picking her head up from the edge to look at Kafka. Her eyes traveled—unsubtle and slow. “At first.”

Kafka caught the direction of her gaze a second too late. The worn cotton of her shirt clung in the worst way—the thin fabric stretched tightly across the swell of her full breasts. The sharp curve of her nipples stood stark against the shirt. Her arms crossed over her chest, automatic and defensive.

Stelle grinned wolfishly, “You look hungry.”

Kafka’s brow ticked upward, “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on.” Stelle said, eyes hovering where Kafka’s arms were crossed. “You’re practically begging for it. Look at you. Those poor things are starving for …touch.” Stelle clarified, way too pleased with herself. She leaned up a little, propping herself up on her elbow. “You sure I can’t help?”

Kafka grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked her in the face with it. Hard.

Stelle fell back with a laugh, catching the pillow and tossing it aside like it weighed nothing. “Violent… but still not a no.”

Kafka shifted on the bed, turning her back to her and tugging the covers up over her shoulder, “If you come near me again, I will actually throw you out the window.”

“Would’ve been worth it.” Stelle pauses, “You always this sensitive in the morning, or is it just me?”

Kafka didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the lingering feeling of hands on her waist, thumbs against bare skin—and the unshakable fact that Stelle could see right through her. And the worst part was that she had looked hungry. And Stelle had known it.

Kafka rolled over, trying to doze off again, when she felt Stelle’s weight sink back onto the mattress. Kafka rolled over and cracked one eye open just in time to see Stelle’s gaze dip down—fixated and unbothered—eyes drinking in the shape of her breasts under the old black t-shirt she wore. 

Stelle grinned. “Definitely hungry.”

“Stelle.” Kafka warned.

Here she was again, waking up to someone touching her without the hardness of an agreed upon scene and the expectation of safety as it unfurled. Not someone like Stelle—playful, and earnest—and maddeningly fearless in the ways that she chose to adore her. The younger woman gently splayed her hand across Kafka’s waist. She hooked her thumb around the edge of Kafka’s shirt, slipping them under once again. Kafka caught her wrist reflexively.

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring you.” Stelle said, leaning down to brush her nose against Kafka’s cheek. “Like you let me do last night.” 

“That was last night.” Kafka said, trying to sound firm. 

Stelle shifted forward, her body sliding flush against Kafka’s back. Her hand slid up from Kafka’s waist, skimming the side of her ribcage, fingers warm where they paused just beneath the swell of her chest.

“You’re tense…” Stelle whispered.

“So?” Kafka turned her head slightly, “Is that supposed to be an invitation of some sort?”

“Maybe?” Stelle said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I’m not trying to mess with you. You just… you looked beautiful… and so peaceful. I wanted to touch you like you were… precious. Because I wanted you to feel how I see you.”

Stelle’s words buried themselves in Kafka’s chest, flooding her with warmth, “…You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not unless you really tell me to stop.” Stelle murmured, “After all… you think I haven’t figured it out by now, but...” She pauses, “…You just don’t know what to do with someone who actually wants you.”

Kafka’s jaw tensed. But when Stelle’s hand eased the hem of her shirt higher, she didn’t stop her. 

“Kafka…” Stelle whispered.

“Just …stop talking already.”

“Okay.” Stelle said simply, “Then let me show you.”

She pushed Kafka back gently and Kafka let herself sink into the pillows, limbs loose but eyes still open, watching Stelle. Stelle straddled one of her thighs, bent down, and slowly pushed the shirt up again. This time, Kafka lifted her arms just enough to let her. 

The cotton slowly dragged upward, baring inch after inch of skin. Kafka’s stomach, the curve of her ribs, and then the full weight of her breasts, heavy and flushed, nipples peaked in the morning air. Kafka inhaled sharply, caught between the instinct to pull away and stay exactly as they were. The fabric bunched under her arms, leaving her bare.

“…How are you so perfect?"

“…I said—” Kafka started, her hand shooting up to tug the shirt back over her stomach. But, Stelle caught her wrist. 

“Don’t.” She said, shaking her head. “Let me look at you.” 

She leaned down, kissing the edge of Kafka’s breast. Kafka jolted—like a wire had passed through her. Stelle kissed her again, drawing closer to the nipple this time. And then her mouth, warm and wet, drew the soft peak in slowly between her lips. Kafka’s back arched faintly, a breath catching in her throat. Her eyes were wide, mouth parted, body pliant beneath the weight of Stelle’s slow worship. Her hand came down again, intertwining her fingers into Stelle’s hair and held her there.

Stelle’s mouth was soft and warm as she moved over her chest—slow and sucking kisses that left Kafka flushed and tense beneath her. Stelle’s tongue circled around the peak of one of her hardened nipples and Kafka’s breathing grew ragged. She hated the sound of it. Hated how exposed she felt, how easily her body responded when her mind was still catching up.

“Stelle…”

Stelle lifted her head slightly, resting her chin just below Kafka’s sternum. Her lips were wet, eyes half-lidded and playful. Kafka reached down and brushed a hand over Stelle’s cheek, thumb tracing her temple as Stelle turned her face into the touch.

Then her hands slid lower again. Stelle took her time, kissing her way down Kafka’s ribs, her stomach, until she hovered just above the waistband of Kafka’s pajama bottoms. Her fingers curled beneath the elastic but didn’t tug—just rested there for a moment. 

Kafka’s breath hitched sharply, a flush spreading over her skin. She could feel it—warm and slick—an undeniable wetness pooling between her legs. Her body wanted to keep going, wanted to fall into the haze that Stelle was painting with her lips and hands. But her mind …

…Well, it was already slamming on the brakes.

“Stelle.” Kafka breathed out, voice low but firm, trembling just enough to betray her inner struggle.

Stelle’s movements faltered for a fraction of a second, eyes flickering up to meet hers.

“I… I need you to stop.” Kafka said, firmer now. Her voice wavered with the effort it took to pull herself back from the edge she was teetering on. Her hands gripped the sheets beneath her, knuckles whitening as if grounding herself.

Stelle’s expression softened instantly, lips curving in a knowing, gentle smile. She withdrew her hands slowly, the warmth leaving Kafka’s skin like a quiet ache, but gave her the space she was asking for without question or resistance. Kafka’s heart thundered in her chest as she pushed herself up on trembling arms.

“This… is too much.” 

Stelle reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Kafka’s ear. “Whenever you say stop, I stop.”

Kafka’s throat tightened with something that felt like gratitude. She pushed her shirt back down and fell back to the bed, “…Thank you.”

For a moment, they just held each other’s gazes, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Stelle’s smile softened further, and instead of pushing forward, she shifted her weight back, giving Kafka space to breathe and collect herself.

Kafka closed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, trying to steady her racing heart. When she opened her eyes again, Stelle was watching her with nothing but patience and quiet affection, no judgment, no rush—just waiting.

Then, Stelle finally asked, “Are you okay?”

Kafka swallowed thickly, her voice nowhere to be found. All she could manage was a stiff little nod.

“You’re not talking.”

Another pause.

“…Kafka?”

Kafka turned on her side, away from Stelle, and buried her face into the pillow. Her ears burned. Her neck flushed pink. She felt fragile, like she might die of the softness Stelle was aiming her way. 

“I …can’t.”

“You… can’t what?”

“I just can’t.”

“You can’t… look at me?” Stelle asks, lips twitching in fond amusement.

“…No.” Kafka muttered.

Then, Stelle just had to ask, “…Was I that good?”

Kafka groaned and yanked the blanket up over her head.

Stelle laughed, wrapping her arms around Kafka’s blanketed form. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“I am not adorable.” Kafka growled from under the covers, voice muffled and mortified.

“Sure. That’s why you’re hiding like a blushing schoolgirl.”

“I will end you.”

“I think I’m the one who ended you.”

Stelle kissed the top of her head through the blanket. But before Kafka could respond, there was a loud thud—the sound of a heel meeting drywall.

“Would you two keep it down in there?!” March 7th yells from the other side of the wall, “I’m trying to sleep!”

Kafka slowly emerged from the blankets, dragging her hand over her face like she was debating whether or not to commit a felony. “…Did she just kick the wall?”

Stelle was already laughing, “I think she did.”

“…Was she listening this entire time?” 

Stelle shrugs, “Probably.” 

Kafka sighed through her nose, eyes closed, “She’s never going to shut up about this.”

“Probably not.” Stelle smiled lazily, utterly unbothered. “But you’ve got a cute moan, so.”

Kafka turned her head sharply. “Don’t push your luck.”

From the wall again, March 7th shouted, “I can still hear you!”

The smell of fresh coffee lingers in the air and the quiet of the morning settles over the kitchen as Stelle prepares breakfast. Kafka sits at the small table stuffed into the corner, slowly sipping her coffee. 

She’s stuck in a daze, lost somewhere between the haze of the morning and the afterglow of last night. Her skin felt flushed and too tight. Her breasts slightly ached from where Stelle’s mouth had touched them. And every nerve along her sternum felt like it had been rewired to remember.

It hadn’t been the licking, or the incessant pinning—Kafka could take that. Hell, she liked that. She could even control it if she wanted to. Sex—especially rough sex—was easy.

But what Stelle was doing to her? It wasn’t even remotely within her realm of expertise. After all, Kafka…

…You just don’t know what to do with someone who actually wants you.

She wanted to laugh. Or maybe scream. Because Stelle didn’t want her like others did. She didn’t want the idea of Kafka—the dom, the myth, the perfect image built on stilettos and self-denial. She wanted the real thing.

The raw, unfinished version, with trembling hands and too many silences. The woman who froze when touched with care instead of hunger. And Kafka didn’t know what to do with that. Had no training for it. No playbook full of schemes to consult. 

She should have punished Stelle, or at least made some bitter joke. Reasserted the power balance and make Stelle look foolish for even thinking she could touch her that way. That would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

But she didn’t. She’d let her touch her and almost taste her. And the worst part of it is that Kafka wanted more of it. 

But before Kafka can descend any further into her thoughts about what she should and shouldn’t want, something warm and fuzzy brushed against her leg that decided it wanted her. She slowly leans back in her chair, and sees a cat staring up at her with wide, green eyes—Pom-Pom. He lets out a soft tentative—meow—that’s barely audible. 

Kafka’s gaze softens as she watches Pom-Pom nudge his head against her leg, purring louder now. She crouches down slowly, unsure at first, but the cat doesn’t pull away. Instead, Pom-Pom meows softly, leaning up to rub against her hand with a persistence that catches Kafka off guard. Kafka hesitates for a moment longer, then gently begins to scratch the cat behind its ears. Pom-Pom purrs louder, pressing closer, completely at ease with Kafka’s touch.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting this…” Kafka murmurs to herself. 

“Hm?” Stelle turns to look over her shoulder, “You say something?” 

“Your cat.” Kafka replies, pulling away from Pom-Pom and sitting upright again. He slinks out from under the table and slowly walks out into the view, pausing to stare up at Stelle, “Is he always like this? Hot and cold?” 

Stelle laughs softly, “He’s usually pretty antisocial. Only lets me pet him, but… looks like he’s making an exception for you.”

“Well, I suppose he has good taste then.” Kafka says, a hint of amusement in her voice as the cat comes ambling back over to her and meows, looking for more pets. 

“Maybe.” Stelle says with a soft chuckle, leaning against the counter, “But don’t get too comfortable. He might just go back into hiding once he’s had enough attention.” She watches Pom-Pom curl against Kafka’s leg, his tail flicking lazily. She runs her fingers through the cat’s plush black-and-white fur and he begins to purr once more, “Or… maybe he’s secretly in love with you.”

Kafka rolls her eyes as Pom-Pom meows in agreement with his owner. In the distance, a door swings open with a groggy creak. March 7th eventually stumbles into archway of the kitchen wrapped in a giant pastel hoodie, blinking blearily. Her eyes shift from Stelle, to Kafka…

…Then to the cat.

Then to Kafka again.

She squints.

Pom-Pom chooses that exact moment to lean in harder, pressing his entire body into Kafka’s calf like he’s been starved of affection for his entire life. A low, blissful purr rumbles in his chest, audible even across the room. March 7th gasps, horrified. She marches into the kitchen, offended and accusatory. 

“What the hell.”

“Good morning to you too.” Kafka deadpans.

“No. No! Don’t you good morning me!” March 7th points accusingly at Kafka, “That little demon hates everyone but Stelle. He bit Dan Heng’s ankle last week and he pooped in my baby pink suede Creepers the other morning! And now, you’re here for less than twenty four hours and he’s rubbing on you? And purring?”

Kafka looks down at the cat, half-flopped over at her feet like an offering of some kind, “You’re acting like I asked for this.”

“You didn’t have to! You just—ugh!” March 7th throws up her hands in frustration. “This is treason. He scratches up my favorite sweaters and now he’s flirting with the woman who threatened to gut me with her eyes less than twenty-four hours ago?”

Kafka folds her arms over her chest and shrugs, “Are you questioning his excellent taste?”

March 7th glares down at Pom-Pom as he lets out a little trill, pleased with himself. He rolls onto his back and swats playfully at Kafka’s leg, “I feed you. I scoop your nasty little poop. I clean your vomit off the floor. And this is how you repay me?”

Stelle chuckles as she walks over to March 7th with a coffee mug as if it were some type of peace offering, “…Is it really that bad?”

“I will not be usurped by a woman who wears sunglasses indoors.”

“Maybe he just respects the mystery.” Kafka replies glibly. 

“You two are freaks. I hope you both step on Legos.” March 7th seethes as she snatches the coffee mug out of Stelle’s hand and makes her way over to the living room. 

Kafka watches as Pom-Pom continues to curl his way around her legs and purr. She looks at Stelle with the faintest hint of a grin, “I think I’ve made a friend.”

Stelle snorts, “March is never going to forgive you.”

Kafka leans down to begin petting Pom-Pom again, “She’ll live.”

“Really?” Kafka asks, “This is what we’re doing tonight?”

When they had finally returned to Kafka’s place later that afternoon, Stelle decided that she had another brilliant idea for the two of them to indulge in. And so, the living room was now a mess of pillows, blankets, and sheets. Kafka sat on the couch, feeling a little out of place as Stelle bustled around. She was draping blankets over chairs and arranging cushions into a makeshift structure. 

Stelle paused, throwing a playful glance over her shoulder. “Yes. A blanket fort! With bad movies and junk food and everything else you’re supposed to do in one of these things. Trust me, it’s going to be great once I finish getting this thing set up.”

“…A blanket fort.” Kafka repeats as if the words are foreign on her tongue. 

Stelle regards her for a moment, “Are you …going to tell me this is one of those things you’ve never done before?” 

Kafka flexes her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest, “What do you think, puppy?”

Stelle grinned, turning back to her fort-building. “That’s okay. Just give me a minute, I’ll be done soon.”

Kafka sat back on the couch, feeling awkward in the midsts of this childish little project. “It just feels… kinda dumb.”

Stelle stopped what she was doing and turned to look at Kafka again, eyes softening. “It’s not dumb. And even if it were, sometimes you need to do stupid childish things to forget about everything else.”

Kafka glanced down at the floor, her lips curving into a tired and wry smile, “Guess we’re both five then, huh?” She muttered, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

Stelle’s smile widened, “I think it’s the perfect age to be.” And with that, she finished arranging the last of the blankets into place. She crouched down and then crawled inside the fort, patting the space beside her. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Just let go for a bit.”

Kafka sighed as she rose from the couch and walked over to the fort, crawling inside to sit beside Stelle. The fort was small, but it felt surprisingly warm and cozy. Almost as if it were a little sanctuary from everything else on the outside. Kafka glanced around at the walls of blankets, noticing how everything seemed to soften in the dim light. And yet…

“…Why does this feel so stupid?”

Stelle leaned over and nudged her with her shoulder. “It’s only stupid if you think it is. But… I don’t care. Sometimes you need to be stupid.” She gave Kafka a toothy smile, “…And I like being stupid with you, so.” 

Kafka regarded her for a moment. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad… this little moment of ridiculousness with Stelle. “Fine.” She muttered, trying to hide the small smile tugging at her lips. “But I’m still not going to admit it’s fun.”

Stelle’s winked at her, before reaching over to pull her laptop into view, “I’ll take that as a win then.”

She put on a movie to play, some lighthearted comedy that was just the right kind of silly for their evening. And as the scenes unfolded, Stelle glanced over at Kafka who had slowly curled up beside her, her breathing soft and steady as her eyes gently closed shut. Stelle couldn’t help but smile as she glanced down at Kafka’s face. Her expression was peaceful, as if she’d finally allowed herself to just be.

Stelle gently reached down, brushing a strand of hair from Kafka’s face. For a moment, Stelle just sat there, letting the peaceful silence wash over her. She hadn’t expected Kafka to fall asleep so quickly, but there was something so… right about it. And as the movie played on, Stelle reclined back against the pillows, letting Kafka sleep peacefully beside her. 

For once, there were no worries, no need to rush, no pressure to do anything. Time seemed to pass slowly and Stelle could feel her own eyelids growing heavy. With Kafka so close, so relaxed beside her, it was impossible to fight the pull of sleep. But then, a drowsy voice from below brings her back from the brink before she has a chance to slip away. 

“…Stelle?” 

“I thought you were sleeping?”

“No… not really anyway.” 

“Could have fooled me.” 

Kafka’s rests her head on Stelle’s shoulder, her eyes flickering up to meet the golden ones looking back at her, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Am I?” 

“I keep letting you get under my skin more than you should.”

Stelle smiles, “And you let me.”

“You’re too soft with me.”

“Not too soft. Just enough for what you need.” Stelle murmurs. She tilts her head to the side, “You okay?” 

Kafka nodded, “Mm.”

“You sure?”

Kafka sighed, “I honestly… don’t know what I’m doing with you.”

Stelle’s shoulders shook as she gently laughed, “Yeah, I know.”

“You don’t deny it?”

“You don’t want someone to lie to you.” 

Kafka lowered her gaze, “You know, you can learn things by watching people, Stelle…”

"Yeah? What kind of things?"

“You learn about power... about beauty. What gets you killed… what keeps you safe."

"And do you think about those things when you're watching me?"

"Never. But... when you watch people, you learn things about what they expect from you." Kafka replies, "At times, I learned that people expected me to be a product, or a commodity. Perhaps, an accessory to power …or something to control. Refine. Shrink until desirable. Empty until palatable.” Her eyes lift up to meet Stelle’s again, “Sometimes, Stelle… when I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t see my body. I see… survival strategy. I see control. I see something made of skin and polished cruelty…”

Stelle silently waits for her continue. 

“Is that funny… or is it sick?” Kafka laughs bitterly, “I thought I could be glass forever. Always sharp enough to draw blood, never soft enough to be held. And sometimes, Stelle, I …I think my body’s punishing me for the things I haven’t forgiven myself for.”

“I don’t think your body is punishing you, Kafka.” Stelle retorts, “I think … I think it’s just waiting for you to come home to it again.”

“What does that even mean?” 

“It means… it means that I want you, Kafka. However you are, in whatever way that you see yourself." She whispers, like a secret slipping between them in the dark. “I want to bring you home again. And someday… you’re going to let do it.” She glances down at Kafka, “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow… but someday I hope that you will.”

Kafka’s eyes flicker rapidly as she searches Stelle’s face for signs of deception. Her eyes crease, her voice barely a whisper, “I keep waiting for the part where you flinch.”

“I don’t think I can at this point.” Stelle says, smiling softly, “I’ve already seen too much of you to be scared of the rest.”

A thought crosses Kafka’s mind—I wish that you would—and she squashes the urge to verbalize it. “…When I was with Himeko, I used to plan entire conversations before I saw her. Memorize them like scripts. So I wouldn’t fuck it up.” Kafka says, “I don’t want that with you. But, perhaps there is a part of me that feels like I have to earn every second that you choose to stay.”

“You don’t.”

Kafka’s eyes lowered once more, a soft chuckle building under her breath, “…And that, my dear puppy—is why you are so dangerous.” 

In the morning, the living room is quiet except for the faint sound of the wind whooshing fiercely against the glass of the balcony’s sliding doors. Kafka is still asleep, sprawled slightly on her side under the soft weight of the blankets that pool around her waist. Her silk chemise had shifted in the night, one strap falling off her shoulder with the front askew—and leaving one full, perfect breast exposed to the chilly morning air.

And Stelle …is very much awake at the sight of it. 

She’s propped up on her elbow as she stares with the wide-eyed focus of someone caught between reverence and a sense of injustice. Her cheeks are flushed. Her gaze flickers down to her own barely-there chest beneath the t-shirt she had fallen asleep in. She gently adjusts the neckline with a single finger and looks down. Then she looks back at Kafka’s breast.

“…That’s not fair.” Stelle whispers to no one in particular.

Kafka breathes in slowly, hair a mess over the pillow, lips parted just slightly. She looks angelic. Elegant and mysterious even in unconsciousness. And there it is again—her stupidly perfect breast resting against the swell of her ribs like it was sculpted by the hand of God himself. 

Stelle glances down at her own chest again, “I could wear every bra in this apartment and still be less than half of that.”

Kafka shifts beside her, the motion causing her chemise to slip down just a bit further. Stelle watches in fascination as the curve of her other breast begins to make a lazy appearance. It’s not just that they’re big—though they are, and spectacularly so—it’s how they look on Kafka. Like they belong on someone who’s used to being worshipped. And the temptation is… monumental.

With a quiet, almost guilty shuffle, Stelle inches closer under the covers. Kafka stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. Stelle hesitates for a moment, lips parted like she’s debating herself. Then she leans forward—just a little—and presses a soft kiss against the slope of one of Kafka’s breast.

Nothing. Kafka doesn’t even twitch.

Emboldened, Stelle kisses her again. Then, her tongue darts out, circling around the nipple before she closes her lips over it and sucks, gentle but firm. She’s never done this to wake someone before, but now she’s starting to think it might become a habit. Kafka makes a small sound—a sigh, or the start of a groan—and her body shifts under the sheets. Her hand twitches at her side.

“Stelle.” Kafka’s voice is groggy and low, but very much awake now, “…What in God’s name are you doing?”

Stelle pulls back, “Um… appreciating you?” She offers weakly.

“This again? Do you ever stop?” Kafka groans. She drapes an arm over her head, eyes closing again. “If you’re going to be a menace at dawn, at least bring me something caffeinated first.”

“And then… I can finish later?”

“…If you survive breakfast.” Kafka sighs, “You’re relentless.”

Stelle shifts closer again, her cheek pressing lightly to Kafka’s shoulder, her voice quiet but imploring. “Just a little longer? Please?”

Kafka lowers her arm to glance at her, half-lidded eyes filled with a familiar mix of indulgence and exhaustion. “This is two days in a row now, Stelle.”

“I just… really like them? And you never really let me do this before, so… ”

“Of course you do,” Kafka murmurs dryly. “…Two minutes, Stelle.”

“Three?”

Kafka rolls her eyes. “Two and a half. And then you’re making breakfast.”

Stelle hums her agreement, descending upon Kafka’s breasts once more. Her hands stay soft on Kafka’s ribs as she resumes, her tongue barely flicking over the peak before she draws Kafka’s breast into her mouth. Kafka exhales, head falling back into the pillow, one hand drifting lazily into Stelle’s hair.

Stelle hums again, the sound low and satisfied as she suckles gently—more adoration than arousal—a soft rhythm that makes Kafka’s breath deepen but doesn’t spike her pulse. There’s no urgency to it. Just the warm press of a mouth that wants to know her body more intimately.

“I still don’t know why you’re so obsessed with them.” Kafka murmurs, voice thick with sleep, as her head lolls to the side. “They’re heavy. Always in the way.”

“Exactly,” Stelle says, “They’re dramatic. Like you.”

Kafka snorts, “Are you seriously comparing me to my tits?”

“I’m saying…” Stelle replies, resting her chin lightly on Kafka’s sternum, “…They’re sensitive and gorgeous and a little unpredictable—but if you treat them right, they’ll ruin you in the best way.”

Kafka tilts her head back with a groan. “You’re such a menace.”

“Your menace.” Stelle says, pressing a soft kiss between Kafka’s breasts, over her heart.

“That was more than two minutes by the way.” Kafka’s fingers tighten gently in Stelle’s hair as she feels her move toward her one of her breasts again. “Now go make coffee.” 

Stelle grins, already pulling back. “Copy that, ma’am.”

Kafka’s fingers absentmindedly trace the rim of her empty wine glass, watching the flickering lights from the street outside casting long shadows on the walls of her bedroom. Sunday night, the brief moment for repose. Bracing for the lingering threat of Monday when the sun rose once again. 

She sets the wine glass down on the nightstand and turns off the light, sighing as her head hits the pillow. She slowly turns her head to look at the other body that occupies her bed, like a cat assessing a stranger from upon its perch on the far side of the room—Stelle. Kafka reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Stelle’s ear, listening to faint sounds of her breathing. She leans in to kiss her, whispering a soft good night, and closes her eyes. 

Kafka didn’t want to admit how badly she wanted it—wanted her. It was unsettling, the thought of giving up everything. To be vulnerable, to let someone have that much power over her. And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Because deep down inside of a place that she didn’t want to touch, Kafka wanted to feel connected in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to before. To let someone take control, to be wanted—not as an object or an idea—but as herself. 

Why does she love me like this? Why am I never present in the way that she wants me to be? She doesn’t even know who I really am. She doesn’t know a quarter of the things I’ve done. What if she knew? Would she still look at me like she does? Would she still want to touch me?

She imagines what it might feel like to let Stelle actually touch her. Not her body, but everything that lied underneath it. Kafka wanted to deserve this, but she still doesn’t know how. Her throat felt tight as her lips parted like she might say something. A truth. Or perhaps, a warning. Instead, the night stays still and silent as Kafka succumbs to the lure of sleep. 

But, somewhere within that point of the night where time no longer matters and meaning has no purpose, Stelle reaches out to her and Kafka slowly answers her call. 

The moment feels delicate, almost fragile. Like the air between them would shatter if Stelle didn’t move, didn’t touch her. Kafka shifts slightly in her sleep when she feels Stelle’s fingers trail down the center of her spine, but she doesn’t wake just yet. Stelle’s fingers gently brush along the length of Kafka’s arm, cascading downward to rest a warm and heavy hand on the curve of her hip. Kafka shifts under the covers, her eyes slowly fluttering open when she felt the weight of the warmth.

“Stelle?”

“Shh….” Stelle whispers, “I just want to be close to you.”

Stelle slowly shifts, the heat of her body now pressed fully against Kafka. She didn’t ask for anything in return—her own desires subsumed by the need to be with Kafka in this way, to offer something she hadn’t allowed herself before. The night settles around them like a heavy and comforting blanket. Neither of them spoke for a while, content to breathe quietly into the silence.

“You feel warmer tonight...” Kafka whispers into the darkness.

“Maybe I am.” Stelle replies, her hand slipping into the fold of Kafka’s robe that bunches at her thigh. 

The robe slides open fully and Kafka doesn’t stop it. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull the fabric back to shield herself. She rolls over onto her back, searching for Stelle in the darkness. Stelle pushes the sheets back and descends, kissing the space just below Kafka’s navel, the warmth of her breath fanning over the sensitive flesh. Then she works her way upward, trailing kisses across Kafka’s ribs, between the swell of her breasts, her sternum, then her throat. Kafka’s head tips back into the pillow, her fingers fisting loosely in the sheets. When Stelle reaches her mouth, she kisses Kafka deeply, the weight of everything unsaid between them coiling into the space where their bodies press together.

“Relax…” Stelle murmurs when she pulls away, “Let me take care of you tonight.”

And before Kafka could even argue as she sat up to say something, Stelle’s arms slipped around her thighs and pulled her forward. Kafka gasped as her body was dragged forward and her back hit the bed again. A sharp rush of sensation ran up her spine as Stelle parted her robe and settled between her legs.

Stelle’s hands slid slowly along the backs of Kafka’s thighs, her palms warm against bare skin. Kafka tries to focus on the sensation, on the closeness, on the way Stelle’s hands feel against her skin—but it’s too much. The pressure and weight, the unavoidable depth of this type of intimacy is too overwhelming and she begins to feel trapped in her own body.

Stelle’s fingers trail lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake. Her body tenses in anticipation. Kafka’s mind screams at her to relax, but she can’t. Something tightens in her chest, heavy and painful, a sense of wrongness that she can’t push away. Her heart races in her ears, and for a moment, it feels like everything’s closing in on her. It’s too much. It’s too much all at once. 

The sensation sends a rush of confusion and longing surging through her chest. She bites her lip, trying to stay grounded, trying to control her response—but her body has already made its choice. Her fingers tighten in the sheets as the contact deepens, tender and unrelenting. But there’s nowhere to retreat. It’s just her and the quiet certainty of someone who refuses to let her hide. She hears Stelle whisper something soft and comforting, but the words are blurred beneath the thrum in her ears. This isn’t about power. Or dominance. And Kafka doesn’t know what to do with that.

Kafka’s body responds before her mind can catch up. Each kiss from Stelle on the inside of her thighs ignites something within her that feels warm and terrifying. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop her. She can’t. And that frightens her more than anything else. Because this isn’t how she’s used to being touched.

She’s used to orchestrating moments like this, not falling into them. She knows how to maneuver desire, how to bend someone to her rhythm, to stay two steps ahead of her prey. But now—now, she can’t think. Can’t calculate. Can’t run. Her thoughts spin, chaotic and sharp—What am I doing? Why am I letting this happen? Why can’t I stop?

Because… she doesn’t want to. There’s a strange, unbearable tenderness in the way Stelle touches her. It’s not rough or demanding. And Kafka doesn’t know how to receive that kind of softness. It scrapes against the jagged edges of everything she’s spent years trying to weld over with impenetrable steel. She wants to recoil to reclaim herself. Her mind keeps screaming that she’s exposed—vulnerable. But her body keeps answering Stelle’s call of warmth and comfort like it’s starved for it.

And in that moment, she doesn’t know which is more dangerous—the fact that she’s allowed someone past her defenses—or the fact that she doesn’t want them to leave.

So Kafka lets herself fall, even if her mind can’t make sense of the landing. Stelle’s kisses trail lower, growing softer as if she’s whispering a secret into Kafka’s skin. Kafka’s heart pounds a panicked rhythm against her ribs as she stares up at the ceiling, seeing nothing but a blur of shadows. Every part of her screams to take back control, to redirect the moment, to rise, to retreat, to do something. 

Stelle kisses her again—right in the center of a damp and overwhelming heat—and Kafka’s body reacts. But her mind is still spiraling—Why now? How is she seeing parts of me that I’ve hidden even from myself?

Another kiss, the gentle prying of tongue between slick and wet folds. Kafka gasps, her back arching slightly before she can stop it. Her walls are crumbling and she knows it. Kafka squeezes her eyes shut, chest heaving. She’s undone by the tenderness of it all. By Stelle’s soft exploration of a body made of stone.

Kafka’s head tilts back against the pillow with a strangled exhale. It was terrifying, a beautiful fall into a foreign place that she couldn’t claw her way out of. For all her allure, all her composed confidence and teasing smiles, she held control close to her chest like a playing card no one was ever meant to see. Letting someone take care of her wasn’t just rare, but it was foreign. Risky.

Stelle was being careful and tender in a way that Kafka hadn’t quite prepared herself to brace for. It wasn’t the thought about pleasure, or something latent being drawn from Kafka’s bones that felt honey-soft and made her ache. It was the way Stelle had said—Let me take care of you. That was the thing that made Kafka’s stomach twist. 

Her fingers clench and she begins to shake—and suddenly, Kafka finds herself to be too present. Finds all of this to be… too much. And then, barely audible, the words slip out.

“…Ad astra.”

And Stelle immediately freezes.

That’s …her word. Her word for when Kafka goes too far. The one that means stop. The one that means—please love me softer.

And now Kafka was saying it. Whispering it, grasping hold of it. Choking on it, trembling around it as she whispers it into the silence. And somehow, it lands like a punch to Stelle’s heart. Kafka tries to turn her head away with a foreign feeling of shame building within the center of her chest, but Stelle doesn’t let her fade away. 

“I …wasn’t hurting you, was I?”

“No,” Kafka replies, “You weren’t.”

“Then why—”

“I didn’t know what else to say.” Kafka says, almost as monotonously as before, “I just … I just need you to stop.” 

Stelle rises from between her legs, “Are you okay?” 

“Define okay.”

“Was it too much?”

“No.” Kafka said, “I mean… it was… fine. I just…” Her voice caught, and she paused. “I suppose it was.”

“Was what?”

“Too much.”

Stelle pulls away, softly pressing Kafka’s legs together with gentle hands and presses her robe back into place. Kafka lies still, her breath gradually slowing. The room grows quiet as Stelle crawls up beside her and collapses down on the bed, propping herself up on her elbow. Kafka doesn’t meet her gaze right away. Her eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, her lips parted slightly. It terrifies her… how much she liked it. How much she didn’t want to push Stelle away. But, here she was still doing just that. 

Kafka’s voice is soft when she finally speaks. “I’m… still here. Just trying to make sense of… what that was.”

Stelle shakes her head, “You don’t have to explain anything.”

There’s a long pause, and then Kafka turns to look at her, “You were being gentle. Why does gentle feel worse?”

Stelle doesn’t answer.

“Isn’t that the stupidest thing?” Kafka asks her, “I can bend someone over and ruin them without blinking. But... the second someone touches me like you did just now, I want to claw my own skin off.” She throws an arm over her face, “…I can’t let go, Stelle. I don’t know how. I thought I could, but…”

She stops herself—(I can’t—)

…Not when I’m still carrying everything Himeko left me with.

…Not when I’m still choking on the silence of that night.

…Not when I still need to believe I need to be the one in control, or I’ll disappear.

(Which one was it now?)

“I’m sorry…” Kafka says.

“For what?” Stelle asks.

“For offering you something I can’t give.”

Stelle’s reply is soft, “You gave me honesty. That’s enough for tonight.”

Kafka sighs, dropping her arm from her face, “…You’re too good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making me feel cared for.” Kafka replies, “It’s… still infuriating.”

Stelle smirks, “I can be worse, if you’d prefer.”

“Tempting.” Kafka replies, “But I think that’s my job, isn’t it?”

“Only on a bad day.” 

“I’ve been having nothing but bad days.”

Stelle shrugs with a sense of ambivalence as she wraps an arm around Kafka’s waist and pulls her in close, “Maybe a bad month then?”

“A month, hm?” Kafka mutters to herself, turning into Stelle’s embrace, “Feels like it’s been years at this point.” 

A quiet classical piece hums low from a speaker on the counter—Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 16 in C Major—airy and bright in direct contrast to the storm brewing beneath Kafka’s skin.

She stands barefoot in front of the stove, her long silk robe tied tightly around her waist. The sleeves are pushed up to her elbows as she tries to crack an egg on the side of the pan.

Kafka fails the first time, the yolk spilling down the side of the counter. Kafka curses under her breath and quickly wipes it away with a rag. She’s determined this morning. She wants to do this. She’s going to do this. 

The idea had settled into her head the moment she opened her eyes and saw Stelle still asleep beside her, curled into the warm hollow she left behind. Kafka wanted to give her something akin to normalcy, something that wasn’t laced with power dynamics or words she couldn’t say aloud.

So, she tries again. 

Kafka cracks two more eggs into the pan, flecks of shell landing within the translucent egg white. She sighs, watching the eggs sizzle in the pan and then curses under her breath when she sees the egg beginning to cling to the pan, turn black and burn. …Seems like she forgot to oil the pan first. 

Kafka pushes a hand through her hair and turns her eyes to the ceiling in a silent plea—she can fix this. She can fix anything. She fixes models, careers, deals, disasters. But this—this stupid fucking pan and these stupid fucking eggs—they’re ruining everything. And yet, Mozart plays on. Relentless and ridiculously cheerful.

She turns the burner off and steps away from the stove just as Stelle enters the kitchen, rubbing at her eyes. Kafka is standing at the edge of the counter —facing away from the mess she left on the stove—lighting a cigarette and muttering to herself about chicken murder. The classical music chirps on, betraying the disgruntled look on Kafka’s face.

“Good morning.” Stelle greets her warmly, “You called out again?”

“Didn’t feel like going in when I woke up.” Kafka mutters.

“Ah… that would explain why you look like a very beautiful, very grumpy ghost right now.”

Kafka doesn’t look up at her as she lights the cigarette, “I thought I could make us breakfast.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” The classical music continues to play softly from the speaker—Concerto No. 1 in E Major, Op. 8, RV 269, "La primavera”. Kafka stares at the mess on the stove, her other hand rising to cover her face, “Fuck.” 

Stelle’s eyes soften, “Hey. It’s okay.”

Kafka doesn’t want kindness right now. She doesn’t want pity. She wants to cook those god forsaken eggs like it’s no big deal and set a plate down in front of Stelle with a smirk and say something smug about being domestic.

“…Want me to make breakfast instead?” Stelle asks gently, trying to meet Kafka where she is.

Kafka lets out a breathy laugh, “Yeah.” She says, taking another drag from her cigarette, “I think …I think I need to sit down.”

She crosses the room without meeting Stelle’s eyes and sinks down into a stool by the kitchen island. Kafka presses her fingers to her temple as she takes another long drag, watching the sun stretch across the floor and tries not to let herself disappear again. It’s quiet in the kitchen, save for the faint hiss of Stelle cracking eggs into another pan and the soft crescendo of strings from the classical playlist still playing in the background. 

Stelle doesn’t speak as she moves around the space, finishing breakfast with the kind of ease that Kafka envies. When Stelle is done, she sets a plate and a set of utensils down gently in front of her. Eggs, lightly salted with pepper sprinkled on top, and crispy buttered toast. 

“Here.” Stelle says softly, coming around the kitchen island with her own plate and stands beside where Kafka is sitting, “Eat up.”

Kafka ashes out her cigarette into a nearby ash tray and slowly picks up a fork. She turns it in her fingers a few times, before poking about in her plate. Stelle watches her for a moment, before setting her fork down and gently taking Kafka’s from her hand. Kafka says nothing, but she doesn’t pull away when Stelle gathers a small bite of eggs and lifts it toward her mouth.

“Just a little.” Stelle says. “Okay?”

Kafka looks at the fork, then at Stelle’s face—warm, steady, without a hint of pressure. Her throat works as she swallows down the knot that’s been living there for weeks. She leans forward, opens her mouth, and lets Stelle feed her.

It feels mechanical at first, and she swallows just to get it over with. But Stelle is patient, her free hand lightly brushing Kafka’s knee under the table. Another bite comes, then another. Kafka’s lips part again and her eyes flutter shut as the food hits her tongue this time, feeling something shift within her aching chest. She opens her eyes and they flicker up to look at Stelle.

“You’re staring.”

Stelle doesn’t deny it. “I’m just thinking that… you’re looking better this morning.”

Kafka licks the side of her mouth, “I look the same as I always do.”

“No.” Stelle says, shaking her head with a soft smile, “You don’t.”

Kafka doesn’t bother to ask her what she means. Instead, she looks down at the plate of half eaten eggs and reaches for a slice of toast. She takes a bite and practically moans as the warmth of melted butter hits her tongue, “…It’s disgusting how good this is.”

Stelle’s smile intensifies, “You’re acting like I performed a miracle.”

Kafka steps off of her chair and walks around the kitchen island to head to the fridge. She pulls out a carafe containing milk and reaches up into the cabinet to grab herself a glass. As an afterthought, she grabs one for Stelle too. “Considering what I called myself cooking earlier, it is a miracle.” 

“I’ll take the compliment then.” Stelle accepts the glass of milk as Kafka pushes it across the island and watches her walk back around to assume her seat from before. She watches Kafka tear into her toast once more and downs half of her glass of milk, “…You okay?” 

Kafka nods, her eyes briefly flickering up to meet Stelle’s, “Just… hungry.”

…And that hunger, it’s not just for food.

Something passes between them then. It was the unbearable sort closeness of someone giving you what you forgot you could want—and making it feel dangerous to take it. And Kafka wasn’t just hungry for it, she was damn well starved. For food, for touch, and something else she couldn’t quite name. 

“You know you scare me sometimes… the way you forget about yourself.”

“I don’t forget. I just stop caring.”

“And now?” 

“Perhaps…” Kafka pauses, “I’m starting to remember to do that again.” 

Stelle hums thoughtfully as she pushes the eggs around on Kafka’s plate, “…Want more?” 

…Yes. She does. 

The fork clatters against the plate—Stelle’s hand slipping as Kafka reaches for her, her hand curling behind Stelle’s neck. She pulls her forward with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. Her lips press against Stelle’s, fierce and desperate. And Stelle doesn’t hesitate to kiss her back with equal fervor. Her hands migrate south, gripping Kafka’s hips as she spins her around in the stool, and presses her back against the counter behind them. The curve of the ledge digs into Kafka’s spine, but she hardly notices. All she feels right now is Stelle.

“Still hungry?” Stelle asks, panting as she pulls aways, her voice low and husky.

Kafka smirks, “You think you’ve got me just because you fed me?”

“I know I do.” Stelle counters. 

She suddenly grabs Kafka’s wrists and pins them against the edge of the counter. Kafka’s gasps as Stelle dips her head and begins kissing down her throat. Her mouth brushes Kafka’s collarbone, teeth grazing against her pulse. Her leg slides between Kafka’s, causing Kafka’s hips to buck forward. Stelle’s breath is warm against her neck as she whispers into her skin. 

“Tell me to stop.”

Kafka’s eyes burn, her lips parting as she inhales shakily. Yet, she says nothing as Stelle slides her hand down Kafka’s thigh, beneath the hem of her robe. Stelle slips her hand between Kafka’s legs, finding her slick with need. Kafka chokes on a gasp, her thighs clenching, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she closes her eyes as her body bows slightly forward toward Stelle.

“Look at me…” Stelle commands softly.

Kafka forces herself to open her eyes again, meeting Stelle’s eyes through the chaos unraveling in her own. Stelle leans forward, kissing her again as her fingers begin to circle her clit in a firm, practiced rhythm. Kafka jerks with a whimper against her mouth.

“Don’t look away.” Stelle whispers against her lips, “Let it go, Kafka… let me have you.”

That’s what undoes her. Not the touch. Not the rhythm. Not even the heat that’s burning between her legs—but the words. That quiet surrender Kafka never gives to anyone, pulled from her by someone who doesn’t need to dominate to possess her.

Stelle removes her hand from between Kafka’s thighs to reach down and grasp her by the hips and lift her off the stool she’s sitting on. Kafka gasps in surprise, throwing an arm around Stelle’s shoulders as she hoists her up onto the kitchen island. Her robe parts as she’s set down, silk slipping to the sides, baring her thighs to the open air and Stelle’s gaze.

For a second, Kafka doesn’t move—legs half-parted, breath stuttering, chest rising in shallow, rapid bursts. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the kind that would normally snap into a scowl or a command. But Stelle doesn’t rush her. Instead, she sinks lower and that’s what makes Kafka shiver. Someone kneeling for her—not to serve but to worship.

Stelle kisses the inside of one knee. Then higher, just beneath the crease of Kafka’s thigh. Kafka tries to hold still, to pretend none of it affects her. But, her body continues to betray her. Her knees fall further apart as her hands clutch the edge of the counter beneath her. Kafka’s hips shift forward, as if her body already knows what she won’t admit aloud. Stelle pauses just short of where Kafka’s need is wettest and most exposed, looking up to meet her gaze.

“Still think I don’t have you?”

Kafka opens her mouth—but nothing comes out. Her thighs tremble as Stelle pushes them onto her shoulders.

“You can tell me to stop…” Stelle murmurs, “You always can.”

Kafka’s head tips forward—eyes wide and her jaw tight. She can still hear Vivaldi playing in the distance, “Don’t.”

Stelle doesn’t waste a second. She leans in, tongue sliding slow and certain along the slick heat of Kafka’s folds. Kafka shudders, a choked sound ripping from her throat like it was dragged out by force. Her legs snap tighter around Stelle’s head—an involuntary clutch. With her hands griping the edge, Kafka bites down hard on her lower lip and lets her head fall back, hands shaking, a ragged moan echoing off the kitchen tiles.

Stelle doesn’t pause for Kafka to catch her breath, doesn’t give her room to rebuild the walls she’s so used to hiding behind. Her tongue presses in flat, circling and dragging out tight and slow, before flicking fast and deep. Kafka’s hips jerk, caught between instinct and disbelief, legs trembling around Stelle’s shoulders as she tries—fails—to keep her composure.

“Stelle…” Kafka gasps, the name falling from her lips like it doesn’t belong there, like it burned its way out of her throat, “Fuck.”

Stelle growls softly into her, the sound vibrating straight through her core. She presses her tongue flat against Kafka’s clit, then sucks hard, rhythmic and insistent. Kafka’s whole body arches, a desperate cry torn from her throat before she can stop it. Her thighs press in tighter as her head lolls forward.

Stelle’s hands spread her open wide again, thumbs pressing into soft skin as her tongue plunges deeper, lapping and sucking like she means to devour Kafka whole. Kafka’s composure fades completely, her breath coming in short spurts. She’s never sounded like this—never let herself sound like this.

But Stelle gives her no escape—only sensation. Only heat and pressure and the kind of touch that leaves no space to be anything but felt. And when Stelle moans again, the vibration sends Kafka tumbling.

Her back arches off the counter, her orgasm ripping through her like it’s been buried too long, too deep. Her whole body seizes—shakes—and she can’t stop it, can’t hold it back, can’t even pretend she’s in control. She comes undone on Stelle’s mouth, hazy and delirious from the terrifying relief of letting go.

And Stelle doesn’t stop. 

She keeps tonguing her down through the entirety of it. Slowly, savoring her, as if that had been her goal from the very beginning. Not the orgasm, but the breaking that came before it. 

When Kafka finally stops, chest heaving and sweat clinging to her skin—Stelle rises slowly. She kisses Kafka’s trembling stomach, then her hip, then lower again. Her hands gently slide beneath Kafka’s thighs and lift her just enough to pull her closer to the edge of the counter. Kafka barely protests, her legs parting on instinct, too dazed to fight what’s coming.

“You’re not done…” Stelle murmurs against her skin. “…I’m not done.”

Kafka breath catches, “Stelle—”

Stelle only hums in acknowledgment, warm breath ghosting over Kafka’s slick folds again. Then her tongue returns, licking upward and circling the swollen bundle of nerves. Kafka’s hands fly to Stelle’s hair to hold on to something before she dissolves.

“Too much…” She whispers to herself, but her hips are already moving again.

Stelle sucks harder, flicking her tongue against her clit and dragging Kafka back into the fire she’d barely escaped. Kafka sobs out, the first one quietly strangling itself in the back of her throat. The second one is sharper, her head dropping back down, overwhelmed. Her body tightens again and her hands fist themselves in Stelle’s hair like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“Stelle…” Kafka gasps out, “I can’t—I can’t take anymore—”

Stelle lifts her head slightly, eyes meeting Kafka’s. Her mouth is glistening, lips parted just enough to ask without speaking—Do you really want me to stop? She lowers her gaze back to between Kafka’s legs and asks her, “…Say the word and I’ll stop.” 

Kafka closes her eyes and slowly shakes her head. No, Gods, no. She doesn’t want that at all. Without another word, Stelle’s mouth is on her again. She grows softer, her tongue moving in languid circles around Kafka’s swollen and aching clit. Kafka cries out again—louder this time.

Stelle’s breath fans warm against Kafka’s inner thigh, her fingers tracing lazy patterns that spark little fires wherever they land. There’s a teasing softness in her touch now, a contrast to the fierce devotion in her eyes. Stelle’s hands roam over Kafka’s hips, fingertips tracing the curves with a firm, deliberate pressure. She cups the swell of Kafka’s ass, giving it a soft squeeze that makes Kafka gasp and arch her back deeper.

Kafka’s breath catches as she grinds up against Stelle’s mouth. Her hips move in small circles, following the rhythm that sets her nerves ablaze. Stelle’s fingers dig into Kafka’s hips with a pressure that’s almost possessive, thumbs kneading into her skin in slow and relentless circles.

Kafka’s breath hitches sharply, a strangled sound caught deep in her throat as the intensity coils tighter inside her. Her body trembles violently, muscles tensing and relaxing in a frantic rhythm, desperate to hold on as the edge pulls closer and closer.

“God, Stelle—don’t stop.” Kafka gasps, her voice breaking with need.

Stelle’s grip tightens briefly—just enough to make Kafka’s hips jerk involuntarily—then eases into a teasing squeeze that makes her whimper against Stelle’s mouth. Stelle’s tongue flicks sharply against Kafka’s clit and her hips buck instinctively desperate for more. Kafka begins to grind against her mouth in desperate, uneven circles, chasing the fire burning low inside her. The world continues to narrow down to the slick heat between her legs and the exquisite torment of sensation that only Stelle’s mouth can create.

“Please…” Kafka sobs out, “I’m—fuck, I’m so close…”

Stelle’s fingers tighten their grip on Kafka’s hips as seals her lips around Kafka’s throbbing and swollen clit and sucks hard around the sensitive bud. Kafka’s entire body jolts, a breathless cry being ripped from her throat as the sharp, intense pressure sends electric jolts straight to her core. 

The rough pull of Stelle’s lips and the wet, urgent suction—each movement frays Kafka’s nerves tighter. And Stelle doesn’t relent. She keeps sucking and swirling her tongue around the sensitive bud. She feels Kafka clenching tightly against her, her hips dipping forward as her breathing rapidly increases. 

Kafka’s body convulses violently, every muscle taut and trembling as she’s dragged over the edge—her sobs raw and guttural—lost beneath the storm of sensation crashing through her.

And Stelle …she had never seen Kafka like this before. 

Not in photographs. Not in passing. Not even in their quietest moments alone.

There was something in Kafka’s expression—this flickering, fragile in-between—that looked like a woman remembering how to breathe. Her lips, usually so sharp with wit or pressed in unapproachable silence, were parted and trembling, pink and bitten from her own teeth. Her brow creased as if she was trying to hold something in—but failing, beautifully. Like letting go hurt. Like letting go meant surrendering more than just control.

Stelle had always thought Kafka was meant to be unknowable. Like a painting you could never touch. But now, with her sticky and warm thighs pressed to Stelle’s cheeks, her back arched, exposed and vulnerable, Kafka wasn’t a riddle. She was human. 

And still, Stelle watched her. She watched Kafka’s eyes lose focus and then snap back—like she needed to see her, needed to know Stelle was still there, still with her. Not using her, not taking from her, but giving something back Kafka had long convinced herself she didn’t deserve.

In the distance, she can hear the sharp and biting notes of Vivaldi’s Winter—a wild storm of strings mirroring the tempest raging beneath Kafka’s skin. The crescendo built, swelling like the fire inside her, relentless and consuming. And it was the most beautiful thing Stelle had ever seen. Not because Kafka was perfect. But because, for once, she wasn’t trying to be.

Kafka’s body convulses, her jaw clenching as the orgasm crashes through her like a wave she can’t swim out of. Every wall shatters. Every part of her she’s kept hidden gets dragged into the light, trembling and slick and unguarded. There’s no performance here. No poise. No distance. Just Kafka—undone, overwhelmed, letting someone see her in her most vulnerable moment.

And Stelle doesn’t let go.

Even as Kafka trembles and chokes on her own breath, Stelle holds her through it. Holding her thighs, lips softening and tongue slowing. Her hands smooth over her trembling thighs as Kafka curls forward, shoulders shaking from the aftermath, the tears, the surrender.

“You’re crying…” Stelle says quietly, more observation than question.

Kafka laughs, a choked, breathless sound that crumples under the weight of everything behind it. “I know.” She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, even as more tears flow with her laugher. Her shoulders shake, as she drags a hand over her face, “It’s—the fuck—I don’t even know why.”

“You do…” Stelle says softly. “You just don’t have words for it yet.”

Kafka’s legs fall slack over Stelle’s shoulders, thighs glistening with slick and everything that she’s been given. She feels boneless, weightless, skin flushed and shimmering as her hair sticks to her damp cheeks. And Stelle just stays there, drinking in the sight of her. Kafka—composed, calculating, untouchable Kafka—reduced to this. Bare and ruined. Beautiful in her undoing.

“Are you… all right?” 

“…You always do this for breakfast?” Kafka asks her, a poor attempt at her usual deflection. 

“Only for people I like.” 

Kafka sighed, “What a dangerous mouth you have, puppy…”

“Mmhm.” Stelle beamed proudly at her, “Want to find out how dangerous it is when I’m not trying to be nice?”

Kafka opened her eyes, peering down at her, “Are we at step five now?”

Stelle smirked, “Is that a suggestion for later?”

“Let me recover from this first and I’ll let you know.” 

Kafka’s fingers curled against the edge of the kitchen island, trying to push herself upright. One leg was still hooked around Stelle’s shoulder, the other searching blindly for purchase—and finding none. She kicked her leg out, hoping to find her seat from earlier. Instead, her heel knocked hard into the barstool, sending it crashing sideways with a loud metallic clatter.

“That’s going to leave a dent.” Kafka hissed through her teeth. She narrowed her eyes at Stelle, “You’re going to break my apartment with your antics.” 

“I already broke you.” Stelle responded cheekily. 

Kafka groaned, resisting the urge to fall back to the kitchen island with a heavy thud, “Help me down, would you?” 

“It would be my pleasure.” Stelle replied.

She gently eased Kafka’s other leg off of her shoulder and stood up straight. She wrapped her arms around Kafka’s waist, holding her steady as Kafka’s bare feet touched the floor. Kafka wraps her arms around Stelle’s shoulders, leaning into her with the weight of someone who was trying not to fall—on the inside, at least. 

Her eyes are glassy and when she shifts to move, she makes it about three inches before her body decides absolutely not. Just as her knees begin to buckle, Stelle tightens her hold on Kafka’s waist. 

Kafka groans as she leans her head into Stelle’s shoulder, “What the hell did you do to me?”

“Told you I broke you.” Stelle grins against her temple, “Want me to help you sit down before you face plant into the floor?”

“I want to sue you for damages.”

“Get in line. You’re right behind March.” Stelle says sweetly, nuzzling Kafka’s cheek,“Come on, gorgeous. Let’s get you some water before you start sobbing over how good it was again.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

I want to go somewhere different today.

Stelle’s forehead furrows as she stands beside Kafka outside of a shop with tinted windows. There’s an eerie smile on Kafka’s face as she tosses her half smoked cigarette to the side, then beckons for Stelle to follow her with a come hithering motion of her fingers. Stelle isn’t exactly sure what to expect, but she follows Kafka’s lead regardless.

Inside, the scent of gunpowder and the sharp echoes of shots being fired fill the air. Kafka pushes her sunglasses up into her bangs as she walks up to the counter, and exchanges a few words with the attendant. She turns back to Stelle with a small smile.

“You sure you’re good with this?” Kafka asked, raising an eyebrow.

Stelle hesitated for a second, but then nodded. “Yeah, I’m game.”

Kafka grabs hold of the bag that the attendant places on the counter and leads Stelle away toward the room where the shooting range is. They decide on two booths toward the end. Kafka hands Stelle a set of glasses and ear protection, and then begins walking her through the steps of proper gun safety. Stelle listens intently, trying to absorb everything that she could, but… it was kind of a lot. 

“Alright.” Kafka begins, gripping her own gun in her hands and assuming position, “Grip the gun like this. Then aim… and pull the trigger when you’re ready. Simple, right?”

Stelle stared down at the gun in her hands and adjusted her stance. She squinted at the target in the distance in front of her, then raised the gun up to point at it. The weight of the gun felt strange, unfamiliar.

Kafka set her gun down on the counter and moved to stand beside Stelle, watching intently. “Take your time.”

Stelle pressed her tongue into the corner of her mouth and slowly squeezed the trigger. It felt like the world tilted for a split second, the recoil sending a jolt through her arms. She stared at the target, hoping she had hit something, but the bullet had barely grazed the corner. 

Kafka watched with quiet amusement, her arms crossed over her chest. “Not bad for your first time.”

“Yeah, right.” Stelle muttered, “I’m way off.”

“Relax.” Kafka said. She stepped forward, adjusting Stelle’s stance, her fingers brushing against her back lightly. “You’re too tense.”

Stelle sighed, assuming position once more and taking another shot. But, it was just as far off as the first. She sighed, looking back at Kafka, “This is harder than it looks.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Kafka’s lips. “It’s alright. You’ll get it.”

Kafka stepped away from Stelle and picked up her gun, loading it up with a proficient ease that seemed almost uncanny. She took a few steps back and then raised it to eye level. She fired two shots in rapid succession—one landing in the center of the target’s head, the other in the chest area with deadly precision.

Stelle stared as Kafka lowered her arms. There was a confidence in the way she held the gun, a natural grace that felt effortless, “You’re a fucking natural.” She remarked, slightly stunned.

Kafka glanced at Stelle, her expression unreadable. “I guess you could say I’ve had some …practice.”

Stelle didn’t know how to respond to that, but she was impressed, “Well, I’m clearly in need of more practice.”

Kafka gave her a sidelong glance, a soft smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “You’ll get there.”

Stelle raised her arms again as she took aim, exhaling slowly. She pulled the trigger and the shot went wide, grazing the side of the target’s shoulder. She groaned, lowering the gun. “At this rate, I’m more dangerous to myself than the target.”

Kafka gave her a wry smile, “That’s why I’m here. To make sure you don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”

“Great. A babysitter with perfect aim.” Stelle muttered, though there was the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her mouth.

Kafka stepped closer again, her hands curling lightly over Stelle’s, guiding her grip back into place. “Don’t fight the recoil.” She murmured, her breath brushing Stelle’s ear.

Stelle swallowed hard, trying to focus on the target again—but all she could really feel was Kafka’s hand steadying hers. She squeezed the trigger. The bullet landed a little closer to the center this time, though it was still far from perfect.

She turned her head toward Kafka with a lopsided grin. “Better?”

“Much.” Kafka’s eyes gleamed behind the tinted lenses of her glasses. “See? You’re learning.”

“I think you’re just distracting me so I stop overthinking.”

“Maybe.” Kafka replied with a nonchalant shrug, “But it works.”

Another round of shots cracked through the range from the booths beside them. Stelle flinched, but Kafka didn’t even blink. She returned to her own booth, picked up her gun again and reloaded it. She turned to the side and raised her arm, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger. The shot landed cleanly in the center of the target’s head. 

Stelle laughed, shaking her head. “Now you’re showing off.”

Kafka lowered the gun with casual grace and opened her eyes. She glanced at Stelle, arching an eyebrow slowly, “Would it bother you if I was?”

“Hey, Kafka. Random question.”

Kafka rolled over in bed to face Stelle, “Those are the only kinds you ask.”

Stelle let a laugh, “What would you think if I became… a seal trainer?”

Kafka blinked at her. Slowly. “A what?”

“You know, at an aquarium or something,” Stelle said, grinning like she already knew how absurd she sounded, “Training seals. Teaching them tricks. Throwing them fish as a reward. That kind of thing.”

Kafka stared at her, then let out an incredulous laugh, “I think …you would be terrifyingly good at it.” 

“Right?” Stelle beamed, scooting closer to Kafka beneath the sheets, “I mean, I feel like I could totally vibe with seals. They’re chaotic and round and they yell a lot. I’d fit right in.”

The faintest smile tugged at Kafka’s lips. “You’d have them unionized in a week. Demanding better working conditions. A three-meal minimum. Custom hats.”

Stelle’s grin widened. “You get me.”

“God help the world if you ever put that much energy into training humans.”

“Too late.” Stelle said, bumping Kafka’s knee gently with her own. “I’m already training you.”

Kafka gave her a withering look, but it lacked any real heat. And when Stelle laughed, Kafka found herself laughing too. Because this girl—the young, bright and unguarded girl—she was sometimes too good to be true. Too silly, too pure. Too earnest to a point where Kafka almost envied her for it. 

A few days later, they find themselves at the aquarium. That talk about seals had stirred something within Stelle and now she was dying to go look at them for some reason. Kafka had agreed with a long-suffering sigh and a shrug of her shoulders, looking for an excuse to cut her workday short and spend time with Stelle. Perhaps… she was serious about this? 

They wander through the low-lit corridors, passing tanks of jellyfish and slow-moving crustaceans. Kafka keeps her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her glasses perched low on her nose as she quietly follows Stelle toward the one reason they came here. When they arrive at the tanks where the seals are kept, Stelle excitedly bounces ahead and plasters her hands against the glass. 

“Look at this guy.” Stelle said, tapping the glass where a seal was floating upside down, its flippers tucked into its sides. “He’s living his best life.”

Kafka came to a stop beside her, watching the fat blob of a creature slowly blink its large round eyes, “Looks brainless.”

“Exactly.” Stelle nodded her head, “We’re the same.”

Kafka shook her head, snorting faintly. She was about to turn away when she heard—

“ Awr, awr, awr!”

Kafka froze. Mortified, she slowly turned her head to see Stelle barking like a seal—at the seal. The seal flopped over and swam away from her call, ignoring her. A few feet away, a child holding onto his mother’s hand mimicked Stelle’s calls before his mother chided him and told him to stop.

Kafka pinched the bridge of her nose. “Stelle.” She hissed under her breath, voice laced with disbelief.

“What?” Stelle grinned innocently, “I’m bonding with my people.”

“You’re going to get us banned.”

“Totally worth it.” Stelle pressed her hands against the glass, “I still think I’m going to do it, you know?”

“Do what?” Kafka asked her, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Apply to be a seal trainer.”

“While working at the bar?” Kafka asks, watching a seal loop around, before swimming off to the other side of the tank.

“Why not?” Stelle asks her, “Working two jobs can’t be that hard, can it?”

Kafka chuckles darkly, “Some of us find ourselves buckling under the pressures of just one.”

Stelle tilts her head to the side, her upper lip furrowing, “…Is work still giving you trouble?” 

Kafka shakes her head as she briefly glances at Stelle, before turning back to the watch a seal pull its blubbery body up onto a ledge and curl upward, looking proud of itself for accomplishing such a monumental feat, “Not exactly. Work was never the problem after all.” 

Stelle watches Kafka for a moment, “…But it was part of it, wasn’t it?”

Kafka slowly shakes her head again. A unreadable smile comes to her face—whether as a means of deflection or something preceding truth remains indiscernible.

“You know… seals are kinda brainless, aren’t they?” Stelle says after a moment of prolonged silence, “I don’t think the seals really care if anyone’s watching them. They just kinda… flop around, eat fish, and do their thing.”

Kafka chuckled, “Such profound creatures.”

“I’m serious.” Stelle continues on, “Kafka… you’re always so busy making sure everyone sees you a certain way. I think if you gave yourself permission to be a little brainless sometimes …maybe you’d feel lighter than you do…”

Kafka tilted her head toward the seal that was now rapidly slapping its belly with its flipper, “You want me to be more like… that?”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Stelle replied, smiling brightly at her. 

Kafka’s gaze stayed on the seal for a moment. Then her expression softened into something almost wistful. Stelle leaned against the glass beside her, neither of them saying anything as they watched the seals in front of them. Finally, Kafka straightened up and brushed her hand along the front of her coat. 

“Come on, Stelle. Let’s get going.” 

Something in Kafka was beginning to break—like a glacier thawing under the maddening heat of the sun. And in the thawed remains of that deluge, she finds something that she never thought she would have again. Because when Kafka touched her violin for the first time in almost three long years, she hadn’t really planned on playing it.

It happens one quiet evening while Kafka is putting away laundry and waiting for Stelle to come back to the apartment with dinner. A black silk shirt slips from the hanger in her hand as she turns it around to hang it up. And as Kafka bends over to retrieve it, her eyes catch sight of the wooden case resting on the floor of the closet.

For a long time, Kafka just stares at it. The memories begin to rise and she almost leaves it there, almost closes the door on it, wishing for everything to fade. Or maybe—she thinks—maybe it was okay to finally touch it again. 

Kafka exhales slowly, setting the shirt aside on the bed, before reaching forward to pull the case into the light. She wipes the dust off the violin case, feeling a tightness in her chest as reaches for the golden clasps on the front and opens it. 

Three years. It’s been three long years since she’d last let her bow drag across strings, since she’d felt sound vibrating through her chest like a second heartbeat. Three years since she’d sworn she was done with it—because what good was playing music in a life like hers?

The smell hits her first—resin, old wood, faint polish, and something that resembles time itself. The violin rests inside, worn but not ruined. The varnish has dulled and the strings have gone slack. Her hand hovers for a moment, then she lifts it out of the case and cradles the instrument in her hands. The weight is familiar… too familiar.

Kafka sits back on her heels, her thumb tracing the curves of the instrument and the scuffs on its body. She doesn’t mean to bring it to her shoulder. Doesn’t mean to tuck her chin just so, to breathe in that old instinct. But her body remembers what her mind tries to bury.

The bow is in her hand before she knows it. And when she draws it across the strings—uneven and cracked—the sound is ugly. The bow continues to screech against the strings, jagged and hollow, and Kafka winces. The vibration hums against her collarbone and her fingers falter on the fingerboard, yet the muscle memory is still there. It still thrums through her like blood.

She sees herself as a child, feet barely touching the floor as she sits perched on a stool too high for her. Her teacher, an austere woman with silver hair, taps the bow against her knuckles whenever Kafka’s wrist bends the wrong way—Straight wrist, child. No laziness in music. 

A little older, practicing the scales alone in her room until the sun sets and the notes blurred. Her father’s gruff voice calling down the hall—Enough for tonight, Kafka. And then when she was good enough, calling her to sit underneath the hot and bright lights of their sitting room. He tells her to play for his associates, dressed in something that made her look older than she was. Something to make her look like a woman.

The men did more than watch and listen as she played. Their gazes crawl over her with a weight she had no language for at the time. One had dared to murmur something crass about her hands, and her father struck him so hard across the face, he fell to the floor. He quickly orders a brutish man standing by the door to remove him to the basement to be dealt with later. Kafka never forgot the way that man had been dragged out, nor the way she had been told to keep playing to obfuscate the sound of him pleading with her father. As though the humiliation wasn’t hers to dwell on.

But the sound she coaxes out of the violin now is nowhere near what that girl from the past could play. It’s broken, haunting. And the act of holding the violin stirs up the memories of all those lives she lived before. The young girl who had chosen to learn and the young woman who had once let herself dream.

Kafka lowers the bow and stares at the instrument in her hands, her reflection fractured across its varnished curve. Playing such music demanded truth, and she couldn’t bear the weight of it anymore. And yet, here it was… here she was. 

She hears the front door opening and closing—Kafka! I got the food you wanted! Let’s hurry up and eat before I have to go in for my shift!—and the magic of her remembrance is broken. Kafka quickly shoves the violin back into its case when she hears Stelle calling out for her. She pushes the case back into the darker recesses of her closet and stares at it for a moment, before closing the closet door and getting to her feet. 

I will be with you later, my dear old friend. 

Kafka retreats to the kitchen where Stelle is removing box upon box of takeout containers from a plastic bag, spreading it out like a feast for the both of them to consume. Greasy lo mein, hot and sour soup, broccoli saturated in garlic, fried chicken, and steaming white rice. Kafka feels her stomach lurch, her mouth watering as Stelle pops open each container and gestures for Kafka to serve up her food first. Their eyes meet for a brief moment and Stelle smiles. Kafka feels something tighten in her abdomen as she pulls her empty plate toward her. This appetite of hers that’s suddenly returned—it’s left her ravenous for more things than one. 

They eat without much fanfare and loft about on the couch together in the aftermath in a food coma. Stelle eventually rises and gets ready for work when the clock draws closer to nine and Kafka sees her off with a searing kiss and a dazed expression in her eyes at the door. Stelle smiles warmly at her—I’ll be back before you know it—and departs, leaving her alone with the silence of the night. Kafka puts the food away and turns off the lights in the apartment. She leaves the light on above the stove in the kitchen for when Stelle comes back, so she’s not stumbling around in the dark. 

Kafka’s head hits her pillow and she stares up at the ceiling, watching the shadows scale along the surface. Her eyes eventually descend, finding the outline of her closet in the darkness. She stares at it for a moment, blinking silently, knowing what lies beyond those closed doors. But, she doesn’t move to go and retrieve. Instead, she curls up on her side and closes her eyes. 

…But sleep doesn’t come.

Kafka tosses and turns for another hour or so, before she finally sits up in bed once more. Her gaze drifts again to the closet and then she’s out of bed, halfway across the room without even thinking about what she’s doing. 

The hinges groan when she opens the closet and descends to the floor to find the case once more. She opens it and pulls the violin free. Kafka stares at it for a moment, before rummaging around in the case for a satchel that contains her rosin block. She can’t do much about the old strings, but the bow could still be salvaged to the point where she thinks it’s okay to play again. …Maybe.  

She sets the block down and rests the violin against her shoulder, a sense of warmth flooding her chest. She raises the bow, inhales deeply, pressing it cautiously against the strings.

Winter—The first note wavers—thin and raw. The second follows shakily, but steadier. Hesitancy lingers in her fingers. Then it climbs higher, burning with merely a ghost of her old fire. Kafka’s eyes begin to sting, so she squeezes them shut. The bow trembles as she strokes it against the strings, forcing her favorite melody to live again.

She doesn’t hear the front door open.

Nor does she hear the soft click of Stelle setting keys down on the counter.

Stelle hadn’t texted Kafka that she was coming back when she had just barely left. Something about a slow night and being over staffed, so her manager had let her go no sooner than she had arrived at the lounge. Besides, surely Kafka would already be asleep by now.

Stelle leaves her coat hanging on the back of one of the bar stools and toes off her boots, padding toward the bedroom without turning on a single light.

And that’s when she hears it.

Music—and not the lazy hums Kafka sometimes let slip under her breath. This was something different—something almost violent in its precision. Was that… a violin?

Stelle pauses in the hallway, brow furrowing. The sound—fragile and beautiful—slips through the quiet. She follows it until she’s standing just outside of Kafka’s slightly ajar bedroom dood. Inside, Kafka stands in the darkness with the violin tucked beneath her chin, her body swaying as though she’s forgotten the world exists. So enthralled with the sound, that she doesn’t even realize she has an audience.

The bow catches on the strings and squeals loudly. When the melody stumbles again, Kafka closes her eyes, bow pausing mid-air. She presses her lips together, draws in a slow breath, and tries again. Stelle catches a glimpse of her expression in the moonlight. There were no languid or teasing smirks to be found. No—this was raw and strained in a way that teetered on desperation. Every note of Vivaldi’s Winter sounded like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest.

Stelle didn’t even know Kafka could play.

She stayed in the doorway, hidden in the shadows and not daring to interrupt. It felt like she was spying on something sacred… like catching her lover in a moment she wasn’t meant to see.

The final note cracked just slightly at the end, and Kafka let the bow drop to her side. She stared at the violin in her hands as though it were an old friend she both longed for and resented.

“…What are you doing back so early?” Kafka asked suddenly, her voice sounding light. She slowly turned to look at Stelle, her eyes almost glowing red in the dim light. 

Stelle froze, caught in the doorway like a child with her hand in the cookie jar. Her lips parted, but no words came at first. Kafka’s gaze pinned her where she stood, that lazy lilt in her question not quite masking the rawness still clinging to her face.

“I…” Stelle shifted on her feet, “They sent me home early. Said they didn’t need the extra hands tonight.” She hesitated, her eyes flickering to the violin still resting in Kafka’s grip. “I didn’t know you could play.”

Kafka looked down at it, her expression unreadable. “It’s not something I usually… advertise.”

Stelle stepped inside the room, like she was approaching a wild thing that might bolt if she moved too fast. “You’re incredible.”

Kafka gave a soft, almost bitter laugh. “You heard me stumble half a dozen times.”

“Maybe…” Stelle said, “But I still thought it was beautiful.”

Kafka shot her a sideways glance, brows arching as if to say she wasn’t going to play along, “That was nothing.” she said.

“Funny. It didn’t sound like nothing.” Stelle murmured. “…How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long has it been since you played?” Stelle asks, “Or… I guess how long have you been playing for?”

“A while.”

“…Will you play more for me?” Stelle asked, her voice almost shy in a way that made Kafka’s heart ache.

Kafka sighed, “Might be more grating to the ears if anything if I do. I doubt these old strings can hold up for much longer than they already have.” 

“I don’t care.” Stelle said, “I just want to hear you. Even if you mess up.”

“You really are stubborn, you know?”

“You’re just slow to catch up.”

For a few moments, Kafka stayed still. Then, without answering, she picked up the violin again and settled it against her collarbone with a quiet familiarity.

“Do you have a request?” 

“Play me something you think I would like.” Stelle beamed as she flopped over onto the bed on her stomach, “…Or you can play Winter again if you want. I know that’s your favorite classical piece after all.”

For a second, Kafka just blinked at her, “You remember that?” 

“‘Course I do,” Stelle replied. She watched Kafka hesitate as she seemed to be mulling something over in her mind, “…What’s wrong?”

Kafka doesn’t answer Stelle as the violin drops from her collarbone and she goes silent once more. 

There was a time when Himeko used to ask her the same thing. A time when Himeko would curl up on the couch with a glass of wine and say—I want to hear you play.

Back then, Kafka would pull the case from the back of the hall closet, feeling both silly and shy in a way nothing else ever made her feel. That violin—one of the sole survivors of the fire she had put to her family home—had been one of the only relics of a life before all of this. She’d carried it through her years of running, through places where its polished wood looked out of place.

And when Himeko asked for music, it was always Kafka’s favorite composer, Vivaldi. On those nights, when the air had softened and no arguments were lingering between them, Kafka could almost believe she was someone else. A virtuoso with a gleaming future instead of a past lined with shadows. But the applause never came, and the illusion always broke.

“I’m just thinking…” Kafka begins as her gaze lingers on Stelle, “…How long it’s been since I played for someone.” 

“Hm.” Stelle starts kicking her legs back and forth, trying to keep the tension in the air from growing, “Did you used to do that often?”

”Sometimes.”

“Have you …ever thought about playing professionally?”

“I used to think about it.” Kafka replies, “But that was a long time ago. Things just got… complicated. My relationship with music, I mean.”

“How old were you when you first picked up the violin?”

Kafka’s gaze drifted downward, as if she was searching for something in the worn wood of the instrument. A faint smile tugged at her lips as memories resurfaced. “I was a child. …My mother brought me to my first lesson.” She looks back up at Stelle, “I hated it at first. My teacher was strict, and my fingers always seemed too clumsy for her liking.“

“Sounds… intense.” 

“It doesn’t mean I didn’t love it as well. Sometimes … that’s just how these things work.” Kafka tilts her head to the side, “Since we’re sharing, do you have any special talents of your own that I’m not aware of?”

Stelle giggled childishly as a soft blush came to her cheeks. She pushed herself off of the bed and took a deep breath, before kicking one leg out and started rhythmically tapping her socked feet against the hardwood floor. At first, Kafka thought she was just being chaotic again. But then Stelle spun, shifted her weight, and began executing a series of perfectly timed steps—ball changes and shuffle kicks. 

Kafka blinked as she watched Stelle spin again, a small smile unfurling across her lips, “You took up tap dancing?”

Stelle grinned without missing a beat. “I took lessons for eight years. Had a brief obsession with Riverdance when I was a kid.”

“You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“You never asked.” Stelle said.

“Like I was supposed to know.” Kafka muttered, “God, you’re such a menace.”

“You like it.”

“I’m terrified.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m hiding it.”

“Not well.”

Kafka chuckled, her shoulders shaking loosely, “You’re still a parasitic alien larva.”

“Affectionately?”

“Affectionately.”

Kafka awakens to the soft rustle of blankets and the faint warmth of someone pressing in close.

Her vision clears slowly, greeted by the sight of Stelle leaning over her. Her golden eyes are still heavy with sleep, yet warm in a way that makes Kafka’s heartbeat feel unsteady. She leans down to kiss Kafka, slowly sliding their thighs and legs together as she rolls over on top of her. 

The kiss deepens naturally and the blankets slide lower. One of Stelle’s hands lower to settle on Kafka’s waist, their thighs pressing closer. Stelle leans more of her weight onto Kafka as Kafka’s arms wrap around her back, her fingers curling reflexively in the fabric of Stelle’s shirt. She tilts her head forward, their foreheads brushing. Kafka’s breathing comes slower, deeper, as if she’s trying to keep herself from tipping too far. For a moment, she debates swallowing the words that rise to her tongue, but then Stelle shifts again and the thought shatters.

Kafka’s legs part willingly as Stelle slowly grinds her hips down, the bed creaking softly beneath them. A slower, deeper grind follows that causes Kafka’s breath to hitch. The heat subconsciously builds as Stelle coaxes Kafka to the surface, pooling deep within the space between her legs. 

...More.

Kafka’s hands clutch at Stelle’s back, nails digging into the fabric of her shirt. Her hips roll with increased intent, pressing harder into Kafka’s pelvis. Stelle’s eyes flutter closed for a moment when she hears the softness of Kafka’s moan quivering in her ear, savoring the sound for what it is. Stelle presses in closer, her lips brushing along Kafka’s jaw—You never let yourself breathe.

Stelle slides back for a moment, her hands moving down to the waistband of her sleep shorts. She yanks the fabric down off her thighs along with her panties as Kafka watches her. The sight of Stelle’s bare, soft skin stirs something deep inside of Kafka, quickening her pulse. Without hesitation, Kafka’s hands reach down to the waistband of her own silky black panties, easing them down over her hips.

For a moment, it feels as though time has slowed to nothing but the two of them bathed in the soft hush of winter's morning light. Their bodies melt together, the bare skin of their torsos pressing close. 

Slowly, with a harder and more deliberate grind, Stelle drives into Kafka, making the bed creak beneath them. The headboard rattles against the wall with a loud thud, echoing the mounting rhythm of their bodies grinding together. Kafka holds tightly onto Stelle as the rocking of the headboard against the wall matches the pounding of her pulse. 

Tell me what you want…

…Give me more.

The space fills with the soft, wet sounds of their slick folds sliding together, punctuated by shallow gasps and breathy sighs. Kafka’s heart pounds as the friction builds. She presses closer, reaching up to tangle her fingers in Stelle’s hair, grounding herself in the warmth and presence of the woman above her. 

Stelle’s hands move with quiet intention, sliding down Kafka’s sides until her fingers brush against the softness between her thighs. Kafka's breath catches as Stelle’s fingers find their way inside her, curling with careful pressure. Stelle’s golden eyes meet hers as they press in deeper, and Kafka arches instinctively as the pressure coils tighter.

Kafka’s eyes lock onto Stelle’s, half lidded and hazy. Another one of Stelle’s fingers slips inside, three fingers pressing in and stretching her open. Kafka moans as a flush spreads across her cheeks. The curling and pulsing coils the heater tighter as Kafka’s inner walls tighten around Stelle’s fingers, drawing closer and closer to the edge. And then finally, it snaps free in a flood of release.

Breath still uneven, Kafka’s eyes flicker up to watch Stelle slowly bring those slick fingers to her lips, eyes locking with Kafka’s in a heated gaze. She sucks gently, the soft wet warmth of her mouth drawing the last traces of Kafka’s arousal from her skin. The sight stirs something deep and fierce in Kafka—a mixture of vulnerability and something akin to trust. And her appetite is stoked once more.

And even after Kafka drags herself out of bed to get ready for work, even as she pretends that Stelle isn’t slowly unraveling every facet of the carefully constructed persona she’s maintained for years—that she isn’t breaking through all the walls Kafka had kept so tightly locked—the hunger remains.

She sits at her desk that morning with her brain in a fog, trying to ignore her phone when it buzzes with another unchecked message from Stelle. Something sultry perhaps? Or teasing and chaotic as was par for the course? It doesn’t matter what it is, because all of it still leaves Kafka yearning for something more… familiar . Something that she’s been denied for so long and desperately hungers for again. 

By late afternoon, the haze in Kafka’s mind had grown heavier. Every thought she had was consumed with the memory of Stelle’s touch. She tries to work, chain smokes to try and concentrate through the fog of desire and anticipation. But she can’t. Every rational thought battles against the pull, but it’s no use. The hunger and the craving for what Stelle brings—it’s a tether she cannot cut. And somewhere deep down inside, she knows she doesn’t want to.

Her mind drifts to the past—Himeko. She remembers the way she had surrendered once, breaking her own rules of control and let someone else in. And how, after it ended, the thought of anyone else touching her that way would be a violation of the highest order. 

But with Stelle, it’s different. There’s no threat of betrayal, no sharp pang of loss. Instead, there’s a strange, exhilarating safety in it—a trust she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for. Every time Stelle crosses those invisible boundaries Kafka had once built to protect herself, Kafka feels herself unravel… and yet, she doesn’t recoil. She leans into it. She wants it.

Kafka, who had prided herself on control, on carefully rationed intimacy, finds herself craving more with Stelle than she ever did with Himeko. And the contrast is so dizzying, she just might faint again. 

And so, they find themselves in the living room that night, with the lights dimmed low and classical music playing softly on the portable speaker on the coffee table. Stelle leans back on the couch, hands gripping the cushions as Kafka smiles at her—in that slow, dangerous way—and waits for her to advance.

“Your only rule… is to keep your hands to yourself.” Kafka says as she watches Stelle from afar.

Stelle raised her palms in mock surrender, “And what’s the penalty if I break that rule?”

“You don’t want to find out.” Kafka murmured, sliding her fingers through the top button of her blouse. She popped it open with a deliberate slowness, before meandering down to unbutton the others. It was merely a performance meant to make Stelle ache in the same way Kafka currently was. 

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Mmhmm.” Kafka hummed, shrugging her blouse off her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor in a careless heap. She watched Stelle lean forward without thinking, giving pause. “Sit. Back.”

The command was gentle, but Kafka’s voice was sharp enough to make Stelle freeze. She sank back into the couch, hands gripping her knees.

“Good girl.” Kafka purred, reaching behind her to slide the zipper of her skirt down and shimmy it off of her curvaceous hips.

“Kafka…” Stelle’s voice was rougher now, almost pleading.

Kafka’s eyes narrowed as her smile filled with mischief, “Did you want to say something, puppy?”

“Yeah…” Stelle nearly whined, “This is torture.”

“That’s the point.” Kafka said, pausing as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, “The rules haven’t changed. You touch me before I say you can, and this all stops.”

Stelle’s fingers flexed against her thighs, “…You’re evil.”

“I know.” Kafka said sweetly, sliding the lace down her thighs inch by inch, “…And you love it.”

The lace slipped past Kafka’s knees, down her calves, until it dangled from one ankle. She stepped out of her panties, hooking the fabric over her toe and kicking her leg up so that they landed on one of Stelle’s thighs. Stelle gritted her teeth, widening her legs and trying to ignore the lace as it dropped off to the side of her leg on the couch. 

“Funny.” Kafka murmured seductively as she reached up to run her hands through her hair, pushing her chest forward as she raised her arms, “I was expecting that baseball prowess of yours to come in handy for something useful. You know… seeing if you could catch as hard as you claim to pitch.” 

Stelle’s breath hitched as she watched the fabric of Kafka’s bra pull taut over her breasts, “Kafka…”

“Mm?” Kafka tilted her head, feigning innocence. “You look tense. Should I do something to help you relax?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.” 

“If you keep this up—”

“You’ll what?” Kafka cut in, eyes glittering. “Forget the rules?”

Stelle’s jaw tightened, refusing to break eye contact with Kafka, “I might.”

Kafka slowly stepped closer, leaning in to whisper, “Try it. I dare you.”

It was a trap and Stelle knew it. She didn’t say anything, staying still as Kafka smiled dangerously. 

“Good girl.” Kafka turned away, giving Stelle the full, slow sway of her hips as she crossed the room, “I wonder how long you’ll last like that.”

Stelle’s voice was lower now, almost a rumble. “Not long.”

“That’s fine. I like watching you lose.” Kafka chuckled, turning to look over her shoulder at Stelle. Her eyes lowered to where she watched Stelle pressing her fingers into the skin of her thigh, “Look at you fidget… you’re restless, aren’t you?”

“No. You’re being cruel.” Stelle shot back, her voice gravelly.

“Mm. Cruel would be letting you touch me, then taking it away again.” Kafka tilted her head slightly, “Want to see what that feels like?”

Stelle rose up from the couch once more, slapping her hand down on one of the cushions, “You—”

But Kafka held up a single finger to her lips, silencing her. “No. I’m still not done with my turn.” She took a deliberate step forward, her gaze locked on Stelle’s, daring her to move. When she finally close enough, Kafka leaned down to whisper in Stelle’s ear, “Do you want me, Stelle?”

“…Yes.”

“How badly?”

Stelle swallowed, gripping the edge of the couch and trying to steady herself, but it was useless. “…More than I should.”

Stelle’s hands shot out, grabbing onto Kafka’s waist and pulling her into her lap. She kissed her hard, all of the pent-up hunger spilling over at once. Kafka melted into it for a single heartbeat… then bit back with teeth, dragging a moan out of her that made Stelle tighten her grip until her knuckles whitened.

Kafka inhaled sharply as she pulled away, “Puppy…”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You’d better make this worth breaking my rules.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Stelle pulls Kafka flush against her, gripping tightly to her thighs as she shimmies toward the edge of the couch. Kafka makes a startled sound, her arms clutching tightly around Stelle’s shoulders as she hooks her legs around Stelle’s waist. Stelle stands up and immediately begins advancing toward the other side of the room. 

“Where are we—”

“Bedroom.”

Stelle’s grip tightens on Kafka’s thighs as she strides into the bedroom, kicking the door shut with her heel. She doesn’t give Kafka a chance to relinquish her hold on her. Stelle drops her onto the mattress with a heavy bounce that earns her a startled laugh.

“Oh?” Kafka props herself on her elbows, “Getting bolder aren’t we?”

“I warned you.” Stelle growls, climbing onto the bed after her.

Kafka arches an eyebrow, still smug, even when Stelle cages her in with a knee on either side of her hips. “Careful, puppy. You’re breaking the rules again.”

“Then punish me already.”

That finally wipes the smile from Kafka’s lips, replacing it with something darker, hungrier, “Don’t tempt me.”

But Stelle’s patience is long gone, ignoring Kafka’s thinly veiled threats. Her mouth crashes against Kafka’s, hot and needy, ignoring her warning. She pushes Kafka down flat, pinning her wrists against the sheets, grinding her body down into the mattress. Kafka gasps, pulling away from the kiss as her back arches against the mattress.

Stelle’s tongue traces the sensitive curve of Kafka’s neck as her hands relinquish their hold on Kafka’s wrists. She trails her kisses down to the slope of Kafka’s collarbone, then lower, letting her lips brush over the swell of her breasts still hidden beneath dark lace. She trails down past Kafka’s navel as her abdomen goes concave with a deep inhale, then slides her thighs apart, spreading Kafka open without ceremony.

“Stelle—” Kafka’s voice cracks on her name, her hips rolling toward the heat of Stelle’s mouth before it even touches her.

And when it does, there’s no softness this time. Stelle latches onto her clit with a sharp suction that makes Kafka’s whole body buck. A ragged cry tears from her throat before she can stop it, fingers flying straight back into Stelle’s hair, clenching tight. 

…Who was punishing whom now? 

Stelle holds Kafka down and open with strong, unyielding hands. Her tongue slides through the slick heat before circling back to the swollen bundle of nerves again. Every drag of her tongue, every sudden flick, sends Kafka spiraling higher with no room to breathe.

Her thighs tremble, clenching around Stelle’s head, only to be forced back wider again. Stelle growls lowly, the vibration rolling through Kafka’s core. Her hands fist tighter in Stelle’s hair, tugging almost painfully, as if she needs to hold her there. Needs her to finish what she started.

Strong hands slide up the backs of Kafka’s thighs and then—suddenly—she finds herself folded in half. Stelle pins her legs hard against her chest, forcing her open and exposing everything. Her tongue is merciless, circling and plunging deep as Kafka’s slick drips down her inner thighs.

“Stelle!” Kafka gasps out.

Stelle continues to dive in, tongue driving deep, devouring Kafka like she’s starving. The angle amplifies every touch as Stelle drags her tongue up and down through Kafka’s slick folds, before sucking her clit into her mouth with noisy, wet pulls. Kafka squeezes her eyes shut. A strangled moan catches in the back of her throat as the obscene, lewd noises mix with her own cries, filling her ears until she can’t think. She’s trapped in Stelle’s grip, body utterly at her mercy.

“God—Stelle—fuck.” Kafka sobs, her voice breaking as her hips jerk upward. She can’t stop grinding against Stelle’s mouth. Can’t stop chasing every ruthless suck and swirl even though the pleasure is becoming almost unbearable.

Kafka’s body seizes, thighs shaking against Stelle’s shoulders as the climax comes. But, Stelle doesn’t stop. She doesn’t loosen her grip, doesn’t give Kafka room to breathe. She only pushes harder, sucking noisily, smearing slick across her chin as she consumes Kafka. Kafka’s sobs dissolve into breathless cries, every muscle in her body trembling under the relentless assault. 

Somewhere beyond the haze of wet, obscene sounds and her own broken cries, Kafka hears it—faint, but clear. The sharp, lilting strings of Csárdás drifting in from the living room. The frantic tempo, the teasing slowness that erupts into wild, spiraling flourishes—syncing with the storm building between her legs. 

The grip on one of her thighs falls slack as two fingers push inside of her—sinking deep before curling upward in relentless rhythm. Kafka’s hips buck helplessly against the sensation, the frenzied press and pull of Stelle’s fingers matching the maddened violin playing in the distance. Stelle’s pace never falters. If anything, it quickens to match the wild sprint of the music that crescendos in the background. 

Kafka’s second climax builds sharp and unbearable, coiling tighter and tighter as if the music itself is dragging her toward it. The notes rise and Kafka is right there with it—her cries rising above the melody, breaking into sobs as her body convulses. Her thighs quake against Stelle’s shoulders as her cunt clamps down hard around her fingers. Every muscle seizes up as Stelle fucks her through it—mouth still sealed tightly to her clit—fingers thrusting deep and curling forcibly as Kafka spasms helplessly. The music blazes on and Kafka willingly loses herself to it. 

“…Stelle…”

The incoherence bleeds into her, a mess of slick and sweat, broken beneath the merciless rhythm of Stelle’s mouth and hands. The only thing she knows—through the blur of sensation and the wild fervor of violin strings playing in the living room—is that she is becoming utterly and devastatingly undone.

Yet still, Stelle doesn’t ease up. She continues sucking hard on her clit while her fingers pulse inside of her, milking every spasm from her clenching cunt. Tears spill hot and heavy down Kafka’s temples as her head careens back into the pillow. She lets out a choked gasp, trying to pull back from Stelle’s grip. But her strength wanes—legs useless, hands barely able to maintain a steady grip. 

“Stelle…” Kafka breathes, her voice low and trembling, “…That’s enou—“

Stelle isn’t listening as she growls against her clit, sucking harder as her fingers piston faster inside of Kafka’s soaked, encompassing heat. Stelle shifts slightly, dropping her hand from Kafka’s thigh and adjusting her grip to expose Kafka fully.

She spreads Kafka’s flushed and glistening folds apart with one hand while the other traces the sensitive skin around her overstimulated clit. Her tongue dives forward, sliding back the delicate hood to circle and flick at the overstimulated swollen bud, pressing against every burning nerve ending with a relentless, wet insistence.

Stelle hums lowly, alternating between sucking the bud into her mouth with wet, noisy pulls and flicking it with the tip of her tongue. The slick coats her cheeks and her chin, burying her face into the damp warmth as she can’t get enough of being allowed into this vulnerable place. 

“Let go… let go for me…” Stelle murmurs against her, breathing heavy as she comes up for air, “Let me see you, Kafka...”

Kafka’s voice breaks, choked and wet, almost as if she were begging without words. Kafka’s hips rise off the bed as her eyes roll into the back of her head. Her thighs clamp onto Stelle’s shoulders as her fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles white. Kafka pulls at the sheets, hearing the soft phwp of the sheets sliding out from underneath the mattress.

Her mouth parts silently, back arching to the point her spine feels as though it were going to break through her rib cage and come through her chest. She sobs out in warbling cries as her core pulses strong against Stelle’s mouth, her hips shifting back into the damp sheets beneath her. A third orgasm hits, pulling so tightly within the depths of her abdomen that it begins to hurt because it feels so good. 

Stelle finally eases her grip, letting Kafka’s legs fall open—weightless, nearly boneless. She slowly presses a gentle kiss to Kafka’s swollen and glistening folds. Kafka’s arms flop limply back to the sheets, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Stelle kisses her inner thigh, her hip, then up to her trembling stomach. She moves upward slowly, ready to pull back and give Kafka space to breathe, to come back down to Earth. 

Kafka’s head lolls to the side, damp hair sticking to her face. Her glassy eyes flutter half-open, unfocused, “Stelle…” She whispers, almost as if she were unable to find her.

“I’m here.” Stelle says softly, crawling up the length of the bed to gather Kafka against her chest. 

She pulls Kafka into her arms, holding on tightly as she feels Kafka turn into her, her hands fisting weakly into the fabric of Stelle’s shirt. Kafka eventually peeks up at Stelle through her damp lashes, her expression caught between exasperation and something uncannily soft. Her lips part as if to say something, but no words come. She can only let out a weak and breathless laugh as she sinks deeper into the bed.

Stelle brushes back a lock of damp hair from Kafka’s temple, her thumb lingering against her flushed cheek, “…Do you always laugh after you come?”

Kafka took a minute before she shook her head, “No…” She pauses again, a moment of hesitation passing over her before she quietly admits, “…That’s something new.”  

The words seemed to puzzle her as much as Stelle. Kafka’s brows knit together as if she were unsettled by her own thoughts. Another bubble of laughter wells up deep from within the pit of her stomach, and she turns her face into Stelle’s shoulder to try to hide it. 

“Then I’ll take it as a compliment.” Stelle’s lips tugged into a smile she couldn’t hold back. “You really are something else, you know that?” 

“You’re only realizing that now?”

“No…” Stelle replies, “…I just… I think I’m realizing there are sides to you that you don’t even realize yet.”

That earned her another laugh—quieter this time. Kafka let her eyes slip shut as she exhaled, melting into the curve of Stelle’s body. After a moment of composed silence, Stelle speaks again.

“You feel… different now. Like you’re finally letting yourself be… entirely you.”

“Is that what you truly think?”

“I do.” Stelle replies, “I can see it in the way you move, the way that you react… and even in the way you laugh. It’s like… it’s like the brick wall you built has suddenly turned into paper.”

“Paper, huh? Fragile, easy to tear—easier to burn.” Kafka’s voice carries a dry, almost self-deprecating edge. “And what happens when it rips?”

“Then I see everything underneath.” Stelle says, “I told you before that I wasn’t afraid to sit in the middle of the storm with you… that goes for what remains of the remnants as well.” 

Kafka lets that settle, her chest rising and falling with the weight of it. “…You still believe that?”

“Wholeheartedly, Kafka.” Stelle’s lips curve softly, “None of this has to hurt in the way you’re expecting it to. You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

Kafka shakes her head slowly, “I’m not protecting myself from you. It’s always been the other way around.” She pauses, “Although, it’s been …enlightening to see what happens when someone doesn’t run away.”

“And you like it.” Stelle murmurs.

“…I do. More than I expected.” She closes her eyes, “Maybe I’ve been waiting for it without even knowing.”

Stelle presses a soft kiss to Kafka’s temple, “Then don’t fight it… just be.”

“I will…” Kafka exhales, letting herself sink deeper into Stelle’s embrace. She inhales deeply, opening her eyes slightly, “But don’t think you’re off the hook for what you did tonight.”

Stelle’s lips twitch into a mischievous smile. “Oh? And what exactly am I in trouble for?”

Kafka tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly, “For breaking the rules … and pushing me into feeling things I wasn’t supposed to… and enjoying every second of it.”

“I can’t apologize for that. But… I can promise I’ll make it worth it.”

Kafka lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, “Worth it, huh? You’ve got a lot of confidence in that statement.”

“I’ve earned it.” Stelle replies, “And judging by the way you’re looking at me… I’d say I’m right.”

Kafka shifts slightly, pressing her forehead against Stelle’s shoulder. “You are dangerous.” She admits quietly. “…And I think I like it.”

“So… Galactic Baseballer wins again?”

“From the strength of your pitch, I’d say you won something.”

“Sooo…” Stelle hums, “Does that mean you’ll let me finally wear the strap next time?”

Kafka’s head lifts, just enough for her to peer at Stelle through half-lidded eyes, “…You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Stelle gives her a cheeky grin, “Not when I’m onto something worth chasing.”

“You break one rule, and now you think you’ve earned the right to rewrite them all?”

“I don’t think.” Stelle corrects her, “I know. And you wouldn’t be looking at me like that if some part of you didn’t want me to.”

Kafka rolls her eyes as she closes them again, “ Careful,  puppy. That confidence of yours might get you in trouble.”

“Good. Trouble’s the whole point.”

“…We’ll see if you’re still so eager when the storm turns back on you.”

“I already told you, even if it does—I’ll still be there.

Kafka hums quietly, a soft and knowing smile pulling at her lips as she feels herself slowly succumbing to sleep, “…We’ll see.”

Chapter Text

The world glittered around Kafka in warm neon lights and glowing hues that shifted between blush, rose, and hot magenta.

The air seemed to hum with something heavy and sweet, clinging to her skin as though it held some kind of substance. Curtains rippled where there was no wind and the ground beneath her feet was plush and soft. Somewhere—above or below, Kafka couldn’t tell—a distant chorus of laughter echoed with something feminine and intoxicating. 

She wandered barefoot through the haze, her body already tense with a strange, restless ache. Every corner she turned only revealed more of the same thing. Pink carnations and red roses that bloomed along the walls, bubbles that drifted lazily around her and burst into glimmers of light. Enormous flowers unfurled at her feet, slick with dew that dripped onto the carpet and shimmered like pearls. Each blossom seemed to sigh as they grazed the skin of her legs, their sound almost human in some obscene way. 

And then—there was Stelle.

She shimmered into view within the pink haze that surrounded Kafka, her hair tousled and her eyes glinting with mischief. Kafka’s chest tightened at the sight of her, and she spun on her heel to try and escape. But the ground stretched beneath her into a hallway lined with sheer curtains. She pushed through one after another—but Stelle was always there. Leaning in a doorway—Kafka. Lying across the floor—Oh, Kafy~bean. Kneeling just out of reach with her grin widening like she knew a secret Kafka didn’t—Where are you going, my little Kaffy Kitty Kat? 

Yet, Kafka still tried to run. Her chest rose and fell with the rush of adrenaline, the faint taste of desire clinging to her lips. Her skin tingled all over, every movement making her pulse flare hotter. She ducked behind pillars that shimmered out of existence when she pressed flat up against them. Dove around corners that shifted and moved with her. But no matter where Kafka went—Stelle was always there. 

You can run… but you can’t hide from the GALACTIC BASEBALLER! 

The pink haze seemed to throb with every word, echoing into its endless depths. The warmth and the shimmering lights, the flowers that continued to bloom incessantly, and the frenetic energy—it was all too much. Kafka pressed a hand to her chest to try and still her rapidly beating heart. The atmosphere itself was built to conspire against her—humming thick with sensuality and lust—and love?

“Why won’t you just stay away from me?” She whispered to herself, knowing that Stelle could hear her no matter where she was. 

“…Because you don’t want that.” Stelle’s answer came from somewhere above her. 

Kafka ducked behind a curtain when she heard Stelle’s giggle coming from somewhere in the distance. She cradled her head in her hands, trying to ignore the budding scent of flowers tinged with desire and want. She pressed on, stumbling down a mirrored hall. Each mirror that she passed by showed the progression of time, growing from a young child into the woman that she was in her present. And as Kafka stood at the end of the hall, gazing at her reflection in the final mirror—she caught Stelle’s reflection slowly creeping in over her shoulder. Or… was it in front of her? Kafka couldn’t quite tell anymore. 

“Running looks good on you, Kafybean.” Stelle teased, her voice echoing from every corner.

Stelle’s hands reached out to lightly brush against Kafka’s arms, but Kafka backed away, still intent on keeping up the game. She turned and ran, the hall giving way to satin stairs blooming with more flowers. The dream wasn’t letting her go that easily.

The flowers seemed to lean in toward her as Kafka rapidly descended the stairs. Their petals brushed her thighs, warm and damp, giggling in voices that sounded suspiciously like Stelle’s laughter. She stumbled into another chamber where the floor turned into satin sheets stretching endlessly under her feet. 

…And Stelle was there, of course. Perched on top of a chaise lounge chair that had appeared within the haze like it had been waiting for her. Its cushions were deep pink and its gilded frame dripped with pink, satiny ribbons that waved at her like tongues. 

Kafka tried to back away, but only found herself pressed up against an unmovable wall lined with velvet. The velvet surface sighed at her touch, curling around her wrist, trying to holding her there. She pulled away, taking a few steps forward. The satin beneath Kafka’s feet rippled and she stumbled, almost as if it were pushing her toward something. 

She tried to pivot again, but Stelle was already there blocking the path forward. The grin she wore wasn’t cruel, but patient and warm—like she already knew exactly how this would end.

“Sit, Kafka.”

Kafka shook her head, cursing under her breath. Her thighs connected with the lounge chair as she backed away and it almost seemed as if it were trying to pull her down into it. She felt herself sinking back into the cushions, as the satin ribbons curled suggestively along her wrists. Tightening to hold her, cradle her within their softness. 

Stelle knelt down to the floor, crawling through the pink haze on her hands and knees. The closer she moved, the louder the atmosphere itself seemed to hum—like a low chorus of voices sighing in approval. Or was it the flowers again, sighing and moaning in ectascy? Kafka pressed back into the cushions, eyes wide.

“Stelle…” Kafka warned her as Stelle slowly advanced further. “Please, just…”

“Please what? Stop?” Stelle asked, her hands slowly sliding up Kafka’s thighs and parting them without any resistance, “Or please don’t stop?” 

…And then without anymore need for words, Stelle’s mouth was on her.

Kafka careened back into the chair and the chaise bent with her movement, like it had been designed for this exact moment. The ribbons at her wrists pulled tighter, just enough to keep her from clawing her way free.

She twisted weakly, tried to protest one last time—but Stelle only pushed deeper. More flowers bloomed overhead. Petals spilled in soft cascades that turned into pink silk as they brushed against Kafka’s bare skin. Every sigh and every moan that she tried to swallow only made the atmosphere vibrate hotter, as if the whole dream was singing with her grinding up against Stelle’s mouth.

The soft pink haze began melting into something warmer, sweeter. Within the remnants of the chaotic pursuit from before followed a serene yet intoxicating tableau. Multiple versions of Stelle appeared—hovering just beyond the edges of the chaise where Kafka was cradled by the ribbons. They murmured in unison, voices low and melodic, threading through the haze with clarity that felt like silk.

…Look at you all tied up for her...

Kafka’s knees quivered, thighs tightening reflexively around the version of Stelle that was still buried between them. Her sobs grew wetter, her breath more ragged as she listened to their praise—of the love surrounding her blurring into one all-consuming presence. Her mind grasped at the tenderness, at the sheer devotion of every version of the woman she wanted so desperately, yet had been fleeing.

One pressed featherlight kisses along her neck, while another nipped at her earlobe. Fingers traced the length of her ribs, embedding themselves deep within her bones. Another mouth pressed at her throat, her collarbone, and the soft spot between her shoulders. Kafka tried to twist away, but the kisses multiplied and the teasing voices grew sweeter. And the mouth between her thighs made her sob, bucking against the chaise in search of release.

“Stelle—” The name tore out of her throat, broken and wet, as if ripped from her very core.

Lips pressed to her chest and her wrists bound by ribbons. Fingers tipped her chin up so another mouth could claim her own, pulling her into a deep, dizzying kiss as her hips bucked helplessly. The teasing affection, the relentless mouth between her thighs, and the countless kisses raining over her—it all collapsed into a blur of unbearable ecstasy.

Kafka came, sobbing Stelle’s name into the kiss as her body arched tightly against the ribbons. The haze pulsed brighter, filling her lungs until she was left drowning in it. Surrounded by kisses, mischievous laughter, and a dozen versions of Stelle murmuring her name as if it was the only word that mattered. And Kafka allowed herself to drown in it—the mouths on her breasts, kisses along her neck, a tongue buried deep between her thighs. Everywhere she turned, another Stelle whispered to her, touched her and claimed her. 

The voices tapered off into breathy giggles as Kafka lay there, panting in the aftermath. The hands pulling at her skin withdrew and the mouths parted from her body, leaving her glistening and trembling in their wake. One by one, another Stelle backed away into the haze, their gazes lingering playfully on what was to follow. 

Kafka weakly lifted her head, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. She gazed up at the lone version of Stelle that remained, then her eyes lowered and her heart lurched at what she saw was awaiting her. Stelle rolled her shoulders, shifted her hips, and with a playful snap of her fingers, the last of the pink haze pulled in tighter around them both.

“…Batter up.”

The words hit Kafka like a whipcrack—leaving no room to run, no place left to hide. Stelle leaned forward with a slow and deliberate confidence that could only be found in a dream. The toy strapped around her thighs gleamed in the rosy light, as though it were already wet with Kafka’s anticipation. Stelle climbed onto the chaise, lingering above her. Her hands reached down to spread Kafka’s thighs wider, forcing her to accept just how vulnerable she was.

The thick pink haze brightened as Stelle slowly pushed inside. Kafka gasped out sharply, her back arching off the chaise, causing the ribbons still wrapped around her to strain. Stelle began to sink in deeper with every slow thrust inside of Kafka. The pink haze around them rippled like water, alive with every shiver and moan that escaped Kafka’s lips. 

The ribbons that had once bound Kafka began to shift, sliding up and curling around Stelle as well. They winded around them, pressing their bodies flush against the other until there was no space left between them. And all Kafka could do was cling to the sound of Stelle’s voice and the merciless rhythm between her thighs that she seemed intent on submerging her in.

The world cascades into Kafka’s continuous surrender. The pink haze deepens, turning rich and luminous with burgeoning heat. Around the chaise, flowers that she hadn’t noticed before, began to bud from the mist. They blossom, petals quivering and heavy with dew that drips slowly. As if they were mirroring the damp heat between Kafka's thighs.

Kafka’s head tips back as the ribbons pressed her harder against Stelle’s body, as if the bindings wanted her to sink into the closeness. Every roll of Stelle’s hips into hers drew the flowers wider. Every cry from her lips caused more dew to spill from the swollen centers of the flowers in overflowing rivulets, heavy with the weight of her arousal. Stelle whispered soft adulations into her ear, filling Kafka until she could hardly tell where her own cries ended and Stelle’s love began. With each shuddering breath that Kafka took, Stelle pressed deeper inside of her. More flowers continued to blossom in a never-ending flourish that mirrored the mounting heat within her. 

Kafka’s fingers twitched as the ribbons continued to scale along her body, keeping her helpless, forcing her to feel. It didn't feel like they were restraining her, and more like they were cradling and binding her to Stelle. The flowers continued to coil and unfurl from the pressure as more dew collected in their stamen. Warm, heavy, and seeping into the floor—as though her own arousal had deigned to paint the earth.

Don’t you see what you wants from you?

Kafka’s cheeks burned brightly as she saw Stelle’s attention turn briefly to the flowers that continued to bloom and drip around them. She wanted to vanish amongst the petals when Stelle turned back to smile warmly at her. Like she knew exactly why they were reacting in the way that they were. 

And then… Kafka heard it—the susurration of a faint chorus whispering breathily into the air—Stelle… Stelle…

It was Kafka—her voice—echoing through the haze, carried on by the flowers themselves. Every intimate whisper that dusted the flower’s petals exposed her desire in the most impossible way. Her knees clenched reflexively around Stelle’s legs as the sounds grew louder, each repetition making her feel barren—more seen—more… caught.

The whispers dripped and slipped through the flower petals like liquid fire. Each one synchronized with Kafka’s racing pulse and the heat pooling between her thighs. She couldn’t stop blushing, couldn’t stop the strange thrill of being so utterly visible—even to herself. 

This was no longer a game of pursuit and pleasure. The dream had become a mirror of her most private thoughts, repeating them back at her in her own voice. Kafka’s throat tightened at the thought. But the world refused to let Kafka hide, the flowers continuing on with their soft moans.

“Your flowers…” Stelle murmured softly, “…They’re beautiful.” 

One of the flowers near Kafka’s knee quivered. Then—it giggled. The sound carried her own timbre—although soft and hesitant—it was unmistakably Kafka. “…Hi.” The flower whispered timidly. 

“Oh… hello there.” Stelle murmured, voice low and playful.

The first flower’s giggle had barely faded when another joined in, petals quivering along Kafka’s inner thigh. “Hi… hi, Stelle…” It whispered, mimicking Kafka’s voice as well.

Kafka screwed her eyes shut as she listened to the carefree giggles, her face burning, “Shut up.”

Stelle leaned closer, eyes glinting with amusement as a flower giggled bashfully and closed its petals, trying to hide, “They’re just saying hi.”

The flowers seemed to grow quiet all at once, their teasing giggles fading into a hush. For a moment, Kafka almost dared to hope they were finished—but then Stelle shifted her hips and pressed forward, sliding deeper into her again. The soft squelch of wetness between her thighs caused the blossoms to shiver in unison. They all let out a collective sigh, low and breathy—More… please, Stelle. Give me more…

Kafka groaned, biting her lower lip as her head hit the back of the chaise again, “Stop that.” 

But they didn’t stop. Every slow roll of Stelle’s hips into her own drew more sounds from the leaking buds—sighs and shivers—moans dripping with Kafka’s voice. Kafka’s latent shame pressed down like a weight on her chest, her body clenching helplessly with each thrust inside of her. 

Stelle leaned in closer, her breath warm against Kafka’s ear. “They’re only echoing you…” She whispered, as her thrusts grew firmer—wetter. 

Stelle…oh… Stelle …

The flowers moaned louder, dripping more thick dew that soaked into the fabric of the chaise. Their cries wove into Kafka’s own—dozens of versions of her voice gasping, pleading, and sobbing Stelle’s name. Every secret sound she had tried to swallow down was reflected back a hundredfold, until there was no hiding what she felt—what she wanted. Tears brimmed at the corners of Kafka's eyes as her body betrayed her, hips rising again and again to meet Stelle’s steady thrusts.

Stelle groaned softly, lips brushing against Kafka’s throat. “Listen to them, Kafka… listen to how beautiful you sound.”

One flower whispered encouragingly over Kafka’s shoulder—She wants you, Stelle… she’s desperate for you… she loves you…

“Please…” Kafka moaned in a fit of desperation, “Stop talking…”

Another sighed amorously by her cheek—Kiss her… she wants it… she can’t hide it…

Stelle leaned in, pulling Kafka forward into a kiss. The flowers continued their soft cooing, urging Kafka to surrender fully. The rhythm below continued to build unbearably, Stelle’s hot and sticky skin sliding along Kafka's with every thrust. Kafka’s hips bowed under the weight, sinking into the cushions, with her chest rising in frantic gasps.

She’s burning for you…let her feel it… she wants you inside of her, Stelle…

Kafka’s tears slid hot down her temples as she shook her head, humiliated beyond reason. The chamber itself seemed to convulse with her. More petals bloomed along the chaise in a frenzy, releasing waves of heady scent. Nectar dripped down the walls surrounding them like honey, syrupy and thick. The moans of the flowers grew deafening, rising in sync with the desperate contractions of Kafka’s body. It was as if the entire dreamscape was caught in her budding release.

Stelle pressed her hips downward, pinning Kafka against the chaise and a heated sensation pooled unbearably within her core. Warmth leaked down the insides of her thighs, slick and insistent. The flowers around them seemed to tremble in tandem, petals curling, like they were mirroring Kafka’s clenching inner walls. Stelle pulled her hips back and the flowers inhaled tentatively, before exhaling in a dreamy sigh as she pushed inside of Kafka’s encompassing heat again—Oh…Stelle. Kafka’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling with the relentless push and pull of pleasure and helplessness.

Stelle pulled back just slightly so that she could peer into her eyes. Kafka shuddered underneath the golden glint, feeling her chest growing impossibly full as Stelle’s gaze bore into her own. Every thrust forced the ribbons to cinch tighter, and she chanced closing her eyes, finding the intensity to be too much. Too suffocating, as the pink haze continued to envelop them. 

Kafka’s lips parted, a broken sound spilling from her throat. Before she could breathe again, Stelle bent down, capturing her mouth in a kiss once more. It was slow and searing, stealing away her thoughts and replacing it with nothing but need. Stelle’s mouth pressed harder against hers, swallowing every cry that left Kafka’s lips. Kafka felt herself dissolving, her heartbeat hammering away in her chest.

I love you… 

The world collapsed into pink and gold—into the heat of Stelle pressing against Kafka, the ribbons holding her open, and the chorus of flowers crying her pleasure louder than she could ever bear to. Pink light flooded everything until the dream felt like it was pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Kafka's cries echoed into the haze as the flowers surrounding them spilled over with dew, petals collapsing entirely under the weight of her release. Stelle’s voice was in her ear, whispering love like a mantra, pressing her tighter and tighter into the ecstasy until it felt endless. She could hear them faintly sigh in a voice that could only be her own—Stelle…

And then—emerging almost absurdly amidst the fevered chaos—a faint mewl echoed below. Out from the sea of blossoms padded a small white kitten, its fur glowing like soft moonlight against the endless waves of pink. It weaved unbothered through the sighing petals, its soft fur brushing against Kafka’s calf. 

Kafka’s head lolled back against the curve of the chaise as the ribbons grew slack in their hold, strands of her hair sticking to her damp skin. Stelle leaned close, her lips brushing Kafka’s ear—Let me take you further, let me keep you here—as her hand slid between them. The kitten began to purr as it continued to wind its way between their ankles, as if coaxing Kafka deeper into submission. The flowers swelled and quivered again, their petals growing heavy with sweet nectar once more. Kafka’s hips bucked into Stelle’s hand as her fingers began to massage her clit while she slowly thrust into her again—Let it break you. Let me have it. Give it to me, Ka—

…And she woke up just as it was bound to end.

Kafka’s breath caught as her eyes flew open, the pink haze dissolving into the cool gray of her darkened bedroom. For a moment, she lay still as the dream still clung to her. The scent of flowers and the softness of lips. The wetness between her thighs—undeniable and real. 

“Damn it…”

Kafka pressed a hand over her eyes, trying to slow her ragged breathing. She groaned as the alarm on her phone began to play, a soft and lilting classical tone that was meant to gently stir one awake. Yet, the waking world felt unreal, still sticky with the echoes of her dream. Her body was heavy, as if she hadn’t quite left the ribbons and the chaise behind.

She rolled out of Stelle’s embrace to turn the alarm off, and dragged a hand over her face as she blinked, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes. Kafka stretched out, raising her arms above her head and flexing her toes in an attempt to awaken her stiff bones and muscles. Yet, she instantly grimaced when a dull and aching heaviness radiated up from her lower back, spreading throughout her hips and down her upper thighs. 

“Fuck.” She hissed, collapsing back onto the bed and clutching at her back. 

Stelle stirred beside her with a stiff inhale, slowly turning her head to search for Kafka. She smiled as she propped herself up on her elbow and cradled her head in her hand, “That bad?”

Kafka slowly turned to glare at her, “I feel like you dislocated something.” 

Stelle winced, though the corners of her mouth twitched like she was holding back a laugh. “…Sorry. I didn’t think I was going that deep.”

“You were…” Kafka muttered—In every reality apparently. She closed her eyes with a sigh, “Trust me.”  

For a moment Stelle was quiet, then she asked, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Kafka cracked one eye open, studying her earnest face, “I’ve had worse.” 

“Guess I got carried away.” Stelle muttered, feigning sheepishness. 

Kafka arched a brow, biting back another groan. “Carried away? More like you didn’t want to stop.” She certainly hadn’t, had she?

“You... didn’t exactly want me to, did you?”

Kafka huffed, “Don’t you dare try and twist this into a compliment.”

“Too late.” Stelle teased, leaning in to press a kiss against her temple. “I’ll take sore hips as proof that I did something right last night.”

Kafka rolled her eyes, but the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She pushed the sheets back with a sigh, bracing her palms against the mattress as she tried to sit up. Her body protested instantly—hips tight, thighs aching, back throbbing. She hissed under her breath but kept moving, swinging one leg over the edge of the bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Stelle asked, her hand catching lightly at Kafka’s wrist.

“Work.” Kafka muttered, trying to pull away, “Some of us don’t get to just laze around all day.”

“…Can you even walk?”

Kafka shot Stelle a look over her shoulder. “Of course I can walk.” She cursed under her breath as she tightened her muscles and shifted toward the edge of the bed again. She didn’t mange to get very far when she felt Stelle tugging on her wrist again, “Stelle. I have to get ready for work.” 

“They’ll survive another day without you.” 

Kafka’s patience, which was already wearing thin, finally snapped. With a sudden twist of her arm, she yanked it out of Stelle’s grip and scooted away from her, “Enough.”

Stelle blinked, “Hey—”

“Don’t—hey—me.” Kafka cut her off as she managed to get to her feet, “I said I have work. I’ve already taken enough time off as it is and I don’t have the luxury of rolling around in bed like some overzealous puppy who doesn’t know when to stop.”

Stelle smirked despite herself, propping up on her elbows. “You liked it last night.”

Kafka shot her a razor-sharp glare, “Heel.”

Stelle froze and then her grin faltered into something smaller, almost sheepish. She let herself sink back against the pillows, hands raised in mock surrender. Kafka rubbed the edge of her palm into her lower back as she stood. But her spine stayed straight, her chin lifted—even as she limped—(sexily in Stelle’s eyes)—toward her bedroom door.

Behind her, Stelle pressed her luck by whistling appreciation at the unobstructed view she had of Kafka’s nude backside, “Woof—still the most dangerous woman in the room.”

“Don’t you forget it.” Kafka threw back coolly, not even looking over her shoulder.

Kafka pulled open her bedroom door and walked down the hallway to the bathroom. She pulled back the shower curtain, leaning in to start running the water for a shower. While Kafka waited for the water to heat up, she reached up to pull her bra off and throw it into the laundry basket in the corner of the room. She glanced at herself in the mirror briefly, noting the soft tiredness in her eyes. She smiled faintly at her reflection, before pulling the shower curtain back again and stepping inside. 

And yet, what Kafka really should have thought of, was preemptively locking the door behind her before she stepped into the shower. Lest… anyone resembling a cute rabid raccoon with feral energy disrupt her shower time for some inane reason. 

The water brought some semblance of life back to her as Kafka stepped under the spray of the shower. She braced a hand against the cool tile beside her, bowing her head and letting the spray cascade over her aching muscles. For a fleeting moment, she could almost breathe—almost forget about the soreness thrumming through her hips. That was until…

“Oh, Kafybean…”

Kafka’s head snapped up as she reached up to pull her wet hair to the side of her face. She whipped around just in time to see the shower curtain being pulled slightly to the side, and Stelle’s bright eyes and messy hair poking through the gap.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Stelle asked with a disarming kind of innocence, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “Eggs? Pancakes? Coffee? Or… do you want me?” 

The sharp slap of Kafka’s palm against the tile echoed out like a warning, “Get. Out.”

“But—”

“Stelle, if you value your life, close that curtain and let me shower in peace.”

Stelle grinned at her with an affirming nod, and then she ducked back out, leaving Kafka to resume her shower in peace. Kafka pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering through clenched teeth. 

“Why do I let her into my apartment…” 

She turned back to the spray, tilting her head back and sighing. The quiet lasted all of thirty seconds before she heard the door opening again and Stelle’s voice came floating back into the room.

“Okay, soooo… we’re out of eggs. And the bread’s kinda stale. Do you like oatmeal? Or should I run out and grab something? …You don’t usually eat breakfast when you go to work though, do you?”

Kafka closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, “Stelle…”

Stelle poked her head back around the shower curtain with that same too-sweet grin. “So what do you want? Be honest.”

That was the last straw. Kafka spun around, water streaming down her hair and shoulders as she pointed furiously at the curtain. “OUT!”

Stelle yelped and disappeared in a flurry of laughter, the curtain falling back into place. Kafka stood fuming, every nerve in her body alight with irritation. Clearly, this girl would be the death of her. In bed, or otherwise. 

Kafka stayed in the shower for a little while longer, her ears perking up whenever she heard something that could be mistaken for Stelle coming to interrupt her shower time again. Eventually, she shut the water to the shower off and blindly reached for her towel just beyond the curtain. She was half expecting Stelle to be waiting there to hand it off to her, finding herself slightly surprised when she wasn’t. But, oh. When would Kafka learn? 

Because the moment Kafka pulled open the bathroom door—there she was. Stelle was casually leaning against the wall outside, her arms crossed over her chest and a smug little grin on her face. Kafka slowly blinked as she stared at her. 

“…Please tell me you haven’t been standing there this whole time.” Not a question, she already knew the answer. 

“I sure have.” Stelle replied, “I was thinking—we could skip breakfast and go straight to brunch. Or, you know, dessert.” Her grin widened as she winked at Kafka, “Or… I could make you coffee right now and bring it to you in bed. With food. And kisses. Lots of kisses.”

Kafka let out an exasperated groan as she clutched the front of her towel tightly in her hand. She quickly brushed past Stelle and her incessant pestering, and made a break for her room—like a nimble spider outmaneuvering an overly affectionate raccoon who had suddenly become obsessed with her. She barely had time to turn around and slam the door shut, the frame rattling as she pressed herself against it and sharply flipped the lock into place. 

“You know…” Came Stelle’s muffled voice from the other side, “…You move pretty fast for someone with jelly legs.” 

Kafka ignored her as she tossed her towel onto the bed and opened her dresser in search of a bra and panties.

Outside the bedroom door, Stelle laughed, “Oh, come on, that’s not fair. What if I just wanted to help you pick out your outfit?”

“Pick out?” Kafka’s questioned, her voice low and venomous. “Stelle, if you value your continued existence, you will remove yourself from that hallway and let me get ready for work in silence.”

There was a pause, then Stelle just had to ask, “…So that’s a no with helping you put your stockings on?”

“PUPPY.” Kafka’s barked, whipping around to look at the door as she adjusted her bra strap over her shoulder. “I said to HEEL.”

The command landed heavy in the air. On the other side of the door, the quiet stretched on. Kafka could practically feel Stelle grinning, smug and unrepentant.

“Okay, okay. I’ll let you get ready in peace.” Stelle said, “I’ll be waiting in the kitchen with coffee when you’re ready.”

Kafka rolled her eyes as she threw open her closet and pulled out a long sleeved white blouse with form fitting tapered black pants. She glanced hastily at the digital clock on one of the nightstands and cursed to herself when she saw that she was running behind schedule. As she buttoned her shirt and shimmied her way into her pants, Kafka paused to look at herself in herself in her full length mirror. She took in the state of her still damp hair hanging over her shoulders in a tangled heap.

“…Fuck it.” She muttered to herself as she reached for her contacts case and hastily put them in. 

Kafka snatched her towel off the bed and dragged it over her head, squeezing her hair to draw out the remnants of water that lingered. She grabbed her brush, raking it through the tangles, and gathered her hair up to clamp it tightly at the base of her neck. Kafka turned her head from side to side—shrugging to herself as she headed back to the bathroom to do her makeup. 

Her eyeliner is slightly smudged and her concealer looks… caked on for some reason. Kafka doesn’t care as she hastily drags red lipstick over her lips and shovels all the makeup back into the top drawer. She doesn’t have time for perfection today—she only has the energy to simply exist in this moment. 

Stelle’s waiting for her in the kitchen with two steaming mugs of coffee. She smiles brightly when she sees Kafka hobbling into the space, handbag and coat draped across her arm and her high heels hanging loosely off her fingers. The high heels clatter noisily as Kafka haphazardly throws them onto the floor, and sets her handbag and coat down on one of the barstools. 

Stelle leans on the counter, “Morning, boss.”

Kafka doesn’t even take her bait as she shuffles her feet into her heels and pulls on her coat. She reaches across the island for one of the mugs of coffee and takes a sip. She lets out an appreciative sigh as the hot liquid slides down her throat. 

She quickly finishes it in three quick gulps, Stelle watching with increased fascination as Kafka doesn’t even breathe between sips. With her coffee finished, Kafka slams the mug down and leans forward to rummage around in her handbag for her sunglasses. She pushes them onto her face and makes her way toward the front door.

“Lock up after me would you?” Kafka asks, catching Stelle trailing after her, “I’ll be back a little later than usual today, but—“

Kafka pauses when she feels Stelle’s arms slowly looping around her waist and pulling her back from the door. Kafka tries to step forward in retaliation, but the soft pressure of Stelle’s arms pins her in place. 

“Stelle, I don’t have time for this.”

“Don’t I get at least one hug before you vanish into the world?” Stelle tilted her head, pretending to pout. “Come on… just a minute longer?“

Kafka stiffened, “I. Don’t. Have. Time. Now move.”

Stelle tightens her grip slightly, nuzzling her shoulder. “You don’t have to rush off just yet. Stay a minute longer.”

Kafka groans, trying to wriggle free. “I have to work. Coffee’s done. I’m going to be late.” She straightens, shoving gently at Stelle’s arms

“Hmm… maybe just five more seconds?” Stelle asks, a hint of a plea in her tone.

“No.” Kafka huffs, finally pulling herself free and adjusting her coat with a sharp tug, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Fine, fine.” Stelle concedes, with a mock pout. 

Kafka smirks faintly beneath her sunglasses. She leans in to press a chaste kiss to Stelle’s lips before reaching to push the front door open. “You’ll survive. Just try not to burn my apartment down while I’m gone.”

Stelle brightens up from the brief contact, her grin growing wider. “I’ll try. But you know me… I like a challenge.”

Kafka steps out into the hall and pauses for a moment. She glances over her shoulder to see Stelle leaning against the wall as she watches her leave.

“I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back, boss.” Stelle winks at her with a grin, “Knock’em dead today.”

Kafka walks into the agency with her sunglass on and her coat collar high. There’s a hint of tightness in her step… like every muscle in her hips was reminding her of last night. 

Black Swan glances up from her computer when the doors to the agency open and Kafka comes stumbling through them. She watches Kafka wander past the front desk without so much as a good morning as she makes her way to the break room with a groan and a sigh. 

Black Swan immediately picks up her phone to text Acheron—Somethings wrong with Kafka. 

Acheron replies a few minutes later—Momo, somethings been wrong with Kafka. 

Black Swan frowns when she hears Kafka sigh loudly again, mumbling something about there being no coffee left—She looks like she’s limping. And she keeps sighing. And her hair looks like she barely did it this morning. 

Before she can read the reply that Acheron is typing back, Black Swan hears Kafka sigh in irritation again as she slams the door to the refrigerator. Black Swan quickly sets her phone face down on her desk as Kafka appears in the doorway to the break room, looking pointedly in her direction. She waltzes over to the front desk, setting her handbag on top of it and roughly drags a hand through her hair. 

Black Swan smiles gingerly at her, “Good morning, Kafka.” 

“Can you make some more coffee? We’re out.” Kafka snaps, massaging her forehead. 

“I would be happy to, but… perhaps you should drink something more… hydrating. You’re looking a little…” Her smile intensifies, knowing Kafka would be prepared to maim her if she pressed too far, “…Depleted?”

Kafka doesn't answer right away. She reaches up to remove her sunglasses from her face so she could look Black Swan in the eye, blinking slowly as she observed the cheeky expression on Black Swan’s face, “Excuse me?” 

Black Swan doesn’t flinch—if anything, she leans into it. She smiles mirthfully at Kafka, “Depleted, dear.” She repeats, “Like… you lost a lot of fluids and haven’t had the chance to replenish them.”

Kafka’s features darken, her eyes taking on a murderous tint as she stares Black Swan down, “Make that damn coffee, Black Swan—before I make everyone regret showing up to this office this morning.” 

And with that, Kafka shoves her sunglasses back over her eyes and turns on her heel, her coat swishing out behind her as she makes her toward her office. Black Swan watches her go with a knowing look, before picking up her phone and heading toward the break room to fulfill her reception duties, lest Kafka kill her—or pretend like she was or whatever. 

She pauses to look at Acheron’s response before tending to the empty coffee canister—Is she okay? 

Black Swan grins—Define okay. I’m almost certain Stelle tried to put Kafka in a wheelchair last night. I must applaud her on that limp that she’s trying to hide—She giggles to herself as she tacks on an additional message—You should come see for yourself. Bring flowers. Or a trophy.

She can only grin when Acheron messages her back—Why not both?—then a follow up—Just… try not to get under her skin too much about it. She’s probably still recovering from… her night. Or whatever happened to her. 

Black Swan purses her lips as she types back a reply—You mean you wouldn’t relish in just a little teasing? 

Acheron messages back—Don’t you think we aggravate her enough as it is?

Black Swan chuckles to herself.

No, darling. Not in the least.

Kafka shuts the door to her office harder than she means to. 

She drops her handbag onto her desk and tosses her coat across the back of her office chair before carefully lowering herself into the seat. The chair wheels creak as she leans back, closes her eyes and sighs again. She slowly reaches down to begin massaging at her lower back, feeling the deep ache that thrums through her spine. Kafka can still feel her everywhere—in her hips, in her thighs. On her mind. …In her phone. 

Kafka opens her eyes when she hears a dull vibrating sound and slowly leans forward to retrieve her phone from out of her handbag. She looks at the screen—Stelle. 

S: Hey. Uhm. I was thinking and… are you sure you’re… okay? Like… down there? 

S: I mean… are y o u okay? I know you said you were fine, but you were walking around this morning like it hurt and… I didn’t mean to… break your hips. Or. You know. Your… little… Kafybean.

Kafka closes her eyes, letting out an anguished groan, before typing out a reply. 

K: So you finally settled that horniness of yours from this morning and now you’re worried? It’s a miracle my legs didn’t give out on my way to work this morning. Lest of all, I kill someone in this office.

S: Did someone… say something to you? 

K: I had to crack the whip at Black Swan for stepping out of line. Otherwise, I am walking with all the poise and dignity of a woman who is still the most put together person in this building. But rest assured, puppy… when I can walk properly again, you’re getting cuffed to the headboard for an entire day. 

S: Noted. Is the soreness still that bad? 

K: Sore isn’t the word I would use. But perhaps you could apologize by doing literally anything I say for the next twenty four hours. 

There’s a long pause after she sends the message. Kafka sets the phone face down on the desk, rubbing at her temples. She notices a message from Black Swan popping up on her computer letting her know the coffee was ready, when her phone buzzes again. 

S: …Anything?

K: Anything.

She can almost see Stelle’s wide-eyed expression as her mouth pulls into that nervous little smile. Another message appears.

S: Okay. Then… first order?

Kafka smirks faintly. Her first instinct is to order something obscene—just to see if Stelle will actually follow through. But she decides to keep it tame instead.

K: You’re cooking dinner tonight. No takeout.

S: …I can do that. What do you want?

K: Surprise me. Impress me. Try not to burn my apartment down.

The three dots appear. Stop. Reappear. Stop again. Kafka leans back in her chair, waiting, already amused by the silence. 

S: …Does that mean you’re off the menu for dessert?

This cheeky little—Kafka quickly replies before putting her phone down on the desk with a quiet huff. 

K: We’ll negotiate. Don’t press your luck. 

“It’s been awhile since you’ve asked me for a reading, Kafka.”

The day has passed to begin again with tensions mostly having been smoothed over from yesterday’s debacle. Kafka sits in her office with Black Swan as the day nears its close, watching her shuffle through the cards of her worn tarot deck. Kafka reclines back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest and her legs pressed together at the ankles. She presses her lips together as Black Swan smiles teasingly at her.

“If memory serves correct, I asked you for one last summer and you told me maybe.”

“I was preoccupied.” Black Swan says, setting the deck down on Kafka’s desk, “…Much like yourself, perhaps?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Kafka snaps, uncrossing her arms and leaning in. 

Black Swan gently taps at the side of her neck, “Those dark red blotches on your neck… you’ve certainly been stressed as of late, haven’t you? Hm… and I’m sure all the limping you’ve been doing this week is because… the stress is starting to affect your posture as well.” She lowers her eyes, humming gently, “I thought you took all that time off at the end of January to manage your stress, not increase it?” 

Kafka slowly blinks her eyes as she stares at Black Swan from the other side of her desk. She doesn’t even bother to deflect, or threaten her, or anything else to remain in control of the situation. She moves forward to cut the deck in half and places the cards back on top of one another. 

“Read my damn fortune already.” Kafka snaps, leaning back in her chair once more and crossing her legs. 

“Most certainly. Let’s see what the universe has to say, shall we?” Black Swan gives the cards one more slow and deliberate shuffle and then turns them back toward Kafka, “Focus—think of what you want the cards to reveal to you.” 

Kafka doesn’t close her eyes. She just thinks—What am I doing with her? With myself?—and leans forward to pull three cards from the top of the deck and sets them down. She gestures toward Black Swan, “Go on then.”

“Very well..."

Black Swan flips the first card over—The Tower. Kafka’s eyes lingered on the chaotic image—lightning splitting a burning tower in half with figures falling from it.

“In the past—you have The Tower. Disaster and upheaval. The collapse of certainty. A meeting born from ruin and chaos. Or perhaps… the ruin you once lived in.”

“Next.”

Black Swan smiles as she flips over the next card—The Lovers. Her eyes brighten, “Oh. The Lovers in the present.” She grins as she briefly looks up to meet Kafka’s irritated expression, “How delightful.”

“Next.” Kafka repeats herself.

“The Lovers—this card foretells of a bond. Of choice and devotion. Asking you not only what you desire, but what you are willing to sacrifice for it.” 

Kafka sighs, “And the last?”

Black Swan flips over the last card, “The future will find you… in The Moon.” She taps her finger on the card, “Illusion and dreams, uncertainty. The path ahead is not lit by clarity, but by reflection. It could be fantasy and obsession—or—it could be transformation. But nothing about it will be straightforward.”

Kafka kept her gaze fixed on the three cards in their—destruction, choice, and mystery. A story that felt too uncomfortably close to home.

“…You make it sound like I don’t have a choice no matter what I do.” 

“You do. But even choices… have gravity.” Black Swan tilts her head to the side, “Shall I draw three more cards for further clarity?”

“Go ahead.”

“Let’s see what hides beneath then.”

Black Swan draws the first card for the past—The Devil. She briefly glances up to see Kafka grimacing as she looks at the card of the horned figure with two naked souls chained to its throne.

“Ruin and bondage. A past marked by patterns of obsession that you could not free yourself from. But also… temptation and the chains that kept you tethered there.”

The next card follows for the present—The Chariot. 

“How curious…” Black Swan murmurs to herself, “A bond that is real. Almost as real as the drive to maintain it. You’re being pulled forward without the need for endless detours.”

And then, Black Swan pulls the final card in the future.

“…Death.”

There was a brief hush as Kafka’s eyes lingered on the last two cards. Then she looked back at Black Swan, as silent as she was before, waiting for her to continue. 

Black Swan hummed thoughtfully, “…The dream dissolves into transformation. All illusions will fall away. And what remains… ends so that something else may begin. For when Death cradles the moon, it is not gentle—but absolute. Whether you drown in the fantasy or rise from it… either way, you won’t come away unchanged.” She leans back in her chair, “And there it is. Do you have any further questions for me?” 

Kafka reaches over for her pack of cigarettes and lights one. She takes a slow drag as she reclines back in her chair and looks over the cards again. Her eyes flicker lazily up to look at Black Swan and shrugs her shoulders, “Do you think I should?” 

Black Swan’s mouth curled into a smile, “Do I think you should? I think the cards don’t bother themselves with what you should do. They only show what you’ll do, whether you admit it or not.”

Kafka flicks her cigarette against the ash tray at her side, “That’s not much of an answer.”

“It wasn’t a question that you wanted an answer for. After all, The Moon doesn’t let you hide in tricks forever.”

A lazy smile comes to Kafka’s face, “…Who said anything about hiding?”

“Perhaps you aren't. I’ll just say… that The Tower burned down long ago, Kafka. Yet you’re still standing in the rubble convincing yourself that it still remains.” 

“…You talk too much.” Kafka mutters in response. 

“Then perhaps next time, you’ll ask the right question instead.” Black Swan laughs softly, “But, since we’re on the topic of questions... I have one of my own for you.”

“Yes?” 

“I was wondering, since you’ve been feeling more like yourself lately... would you like to come out with Acheron and I this Friday?” Black Swan asks sweetly, although a mischievous twinkle remains in her eye.

“You and Peaches, huh?”

“Yes. You, me, Acheron and…” Her smile deepens, “…Stelle, of course.” 

Kafka’s office was silent except for the soft hum of the ceiling lights overhead and the ticking of the clock on the wall. Her hand rested idly against her chin as she stared absentmindedly at her computer screen.

It was nearing the end of the day. The city skyline outside was awash in orange and violet as the sun bled into dusk. Kafka turns away from the half written e-mail on the screen and stretches her arms above her head with a sigh. She should be focused on finishing out the day… but her mind was wandering off to think about a certain someone instead. 

A lopsided grin and soft golden eyes…

Kafka sighs again as she turns to look up at the clock on the wall. She spins around in her chair to gaze out at the litany of other buildings that stretch out into the distance of the city. And then, she squints. Because out of the corner of her eye she sees something suspicious unfurling on the stark whiteness of the wall—a small pink carnation. 

“…What the fuck?” 

Kafka watches as green vines emerge and stretch out along the window from where the flower blooms. A few more carnations bloom and open along the vine, whispers lilting in her own voice—You’re thinking about her again—and then they began giggling, just like in the dream. Kafka whips around in her chair, only to find another flower blooming on her desk, right in the center of her keyboard. Stelle… 

Kafka’s thighs snap together and her cheeks burn, as if someone had caught her red-handed. She began rubbing at her eyes, wondering if they were playing tricks on her and she was suffering from fatigue of some kind. Yet another flower blooms on the arm of her chair, glistening and wet, and Kafka yelps in surprise as she pulls her arm away—You’re aching for her again… aren’t you?

Kafka growls under her breath as she rips the flower off the chair and opens her hand expecting to find its crumpled remnants—but there was nothing. Kafka drags a hand over her face and massages the bridge of her nose. Had the stress… finally caused her to snap? 

Kafka stood slowly, her legs stiff from sitting too long. She gave one last, incredulous glance at the pink carnations now dotting her desk and the wall, their faint giggles still lingering in the air. Her chest tightened from embarrassment, muttering under her breath. 

“I need to… just leave.”

Kafka slipped on her coat, fixed her sunglasses over her face and grabbed her bag, avoiding looking at the flowers as she flicked off the lights in her office and locked it behind her. The ride down in the elevator was silent, and she kept her head down as she waited for the elevator to hit the ground floor. She passed by Gallagher as he wished her a good night and barely acknowledged him in return. 

Kafka took a stiff inhale of air when she stepped outside into the cold of the winter night. She tightened her coat around herself and started walking briskly toward the train station, the usual rush-hour tide of commuters flowing in around her as she descended the steps to the platform. 

For a brief moment, the rhythmic clacking of the train on the tracks, and the muted conversations of others grounded her in the real world. Kafka swayed gently as she gripped the strap above her head, closing her eyes and sighing gently as she listened to the white noise. But then, when she opened her eyes again… she saw a small vine curling down along the strap that she was holding on to—and another bright pink carnation bloomed in her face. 

It giggled teasingly at her—Kafybean…

Kafka pressed her palm to her face, biting her lip as the blush spread from her cheeks to her ears. The vine curled around her wrist, as the petals on the carnation wiggled cutely at her—She’s probably thinking of you too… she’s going to text you soon…

Almost on cue, her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. Kafka frowned as she removed her hand from her face and reached into her pocket for her phone. She clicked the power button and the screen lit up. Sure enough—there it was—she had a text from Stelle.

Hey, are you heading home yet? No pressure if you aren’t. Just wanted to know if you were working late and forgot to tell me. 

Kafka slowly lifted her eyes as she heard the flower giggling again. She rolled her eyes, hastily typing out a reply. 

No, I’m on the train now. Sorry, got caught up. I’ll be there soon. 

She pocketed her phone without even waiting for Stelle’s reply and braced herself as the train pulled into a station and stopped. When the rush of people flooded out, Kafka quickly looked around for an empty seat in the car, finding one on the other side. She rushed to claim it before someone else could and flopped down in the seat, turning her body away from where the vines and giggling carnation still taunted her.

Surely she had snapped. 

By the time the train screeched into her stop, Kafka all but ran out of the train and rushed up the stairs to exit the station. Her high heeled boots clicked quickly along the pavement, as if she were running from something she couldn’t see—only herself. When the lights of her building came into view, Kafka hopped up the steps to the front door and let herself inside.

She rapidly whipped her head about the lobby as she waited for the elevator, muttering under her breath about flowers. Her doorman regarded her silently and then shrugged his shoulders as she got on the elevator. Lot of… interesting characters in this building, for sure. 

Kafka’s keys jingled softly as she unlocked her apartment door, stepping inside with a soft sigh as she dropped her handbag to the floor and pulled her glasses from her eyes. She exhaled the breath she had been holding in, her shoulders sagging as she rested against the front door. 

“You look like you’ve had a long day.”

Almost immediately, the flowers stirred in her mind again. They sighed dreamily in a chorus of soft, longing murmurs—Stelle… 

Stelle leaned casually against the kitchen counter, her eyes bright and sparkling as they landed on Kafka. That crooked grin—the one that made Kafka’s chest ache—was already spreading across her face. Kafka’s knees felt weak as she looked at her, heartbeat thumping too strongly against her ribcage. 

“You have no idea.” Kafka replied, pushing herself off of the front door and loosening the belt of her coat from around her waist. 

“Wrestling paper work all day?” 

“More like being chased by flowers that talk too much.”

Stelle scratched her cheek, clearly confused, “Is that supposed to be a euphemism of some kind?” She shrugs, not really looking for an answer, “Well, if you’re tired from work—that’s good. Because I made some chicken and barley soup for dinner tonight. And I also bought some real fancy bread to go along with it.” Her expression drops just slightly as she turns to look at the stove, “…Tastes kinda salty, though. Maybe you can tell me what you think before we dig in?” 

Kafka gave a small and tired laugh as she rubbed at her temple, “Sure. Let’s see if your fancy bread and soup can salvage the day.” She said as she slipped her coat off her shoulders and eased into a chair at the kitchen island.

Stelle ladled some soup into a bowl and placed it in front of her, “Careful, it’s still hot.”

Kafka blew lightly on the surface and took a sip, wincing slightly at the saltiness. “Yeah… a little salty. But it’s still good.” She let her spoon sink into the bowel as she grasped the warm bowl between her hands.

“You look tense...” Stelle leaned against the counter, watching her, “Did those aforementioned flowers you were talking about stress you out today?”

Kafka chokes mid-bite on the soup and coughs to clear her throat. She looks up at Stelle, “It’s …nothing. I just need a nice, quiet evening at home and I’ll be fine.” 

Stelle smiled warmly, “Then this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. No deadlines, no chaos, no flowers—just dinner and us. Think you can do that?” 

Kafka merely flexed her eyebrows, before silently turning her attention to the bowl of soup once more. Taking that as an unconfirmed yes, Stelle grabbed her own empty bowl and ladled a generous helping of soup into it. She opened the stove to remove the warmed up bread from its pan and set it on a plate with a bread cutting knife. She set her bowl and the plate of bread next to Kafka and walked around the kitchen island to take a seat beside her.

They ate together in companionable silence, the city outside fading into the quiet of night. When the bowls were empty and the bread was gone, Kafka leaned back in her chair with a small sigh of content.

“Good?” Stelle asks her, seemingly satisfied with the way Kafka sunk into her seat and rested her hands on her stomach. 

“I needed that more than you know.” Kafka murmured, closing her eyes and humming thoughtfully. “…Stelle?” 

“Yes?”

“I think… I think I’m finally breathing again.” 

Stelle reaches across the space between them and brushes a loose strand of hair from Kafka’s face, “I told you before that you looked different.” 

“You did, didn’t you?” Kafka murmurs, not bothering to pull back from Stelle’s small gesture of affection. 

For a moment, they sit in the quiet. The gentle hum that thrums through the apartment, and the distant of rumble of traffic below on the streets. And in the corner of Kafka’s eye, a small pink carnation unfurls in the space between their empty dishes. It giggles softly just as Kafka lets out a sigh and closes her eyes. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah… just thinking.” 

The carnation wiggles its petals at her before disappearing into the white space of the kitchen island. She lets the laughter fade into the distance—the talking flowers and giggling vines—settling into some deep space within her heart, into a place only where she could see. 

And for the first time in a long while… Kafka finally felt at peace.

Chapter Text

Kafka… I don’t know about this. 

The neon lights of the club cut through the smoke like jagged shards of color as Kafka guides Himeko through the crowd of gyrating bodies, her pulse quickening from the anticipation of drawing Himeko deeper into her web. Weeks upon weeks of gentle manipulation disguised as suggestion had finally culminated into this night. For when Kafka had promised Himeko the excitement of a new experience, she had decided to leave out the finer details of what she truly wished for Himeko to see—or hear. 

They pass the rapturous moaning of a circle of greedy onlookers watching a nude woman bound upside down to a crude replication of St. Peter’s Cross—as if she were a sacrilegious offering mocking the fall of Christ. Himeko’s eyes dart around nervously as she watches the onlookers removing their clothes, their bodies glinting under the harsh lights. A fresh haze of smoke pumps out onto the dance floor as they collapse onto one another, groaning and sighing in unbridled release. She turns to look at the back of Kafka’s head as she continues to draw her deeper into the maze, her heels echoing like a metronome marking some unholy ceremony that was unfolding around them. Himeko tugs at Kafka’s hand, but she doesn’t relent, gripping harder in return. 

I thought … I could indulge her by coming here. That it would be interesting… but everything about this place feels wrong. 

It’s nothing but an experience, Kafka will tell her. Himeko didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. And as bare as Kafka wanted to be with Himeko on that one night that she brought her to the Garden of Eden, she too would have to wear a mask like the many giddy fools who littered its hallways. Even if she felt at home amongst the aggression and the spectacle, the tabooed whimsies and the borderline heretic folly—even in this place—she still felt the subconscious urge to hide from Himeko. 

Why do you like this? How can you enjoy watching people chain themselves like this? Why don’t you flinch when they’re being whipped? 

Because it’s not about enjoying the pain, Kafka tells her. It’s about understanding the layers that people hide behind. About finding the beauty in the control that they willingly give up… or the control that someone desires to take.

Kafka guides her to a room where a few figures were entwined in their own private ritual. The ropes glint under the dim red lighting, and the faint scent of sweat, incense, and sex hung in the air. Kafka will ask Himeko if she sees it. The beauty, the way that no one in the outside world will ever understand this. 

But the disgust twists and winds itself tightly into an impenetrable pit in the core of Himeko’s stomach and she can’t see anything beautiful in what surrounds her. She shivers at the sight of unflinching submission, and the naked vulnerability of the crowd worshipping the spectacle of debauchery. 

Because this is not the Kafka that Himeko wants to see. She wants the woman that sits at the right hand of Elio and handles the fashion industry with deadly efficiency. She wants the woman who plays the violin and sips wine while they discuss which classical composer created the most difficult concertos. Kafka will glibly comment—Paganini—while Himeko counters with—Tchaikovsky. She wants the woman who regales her with stories of her travels around the world, of the pictures she took along the way. 

Himeko wants the woman—say my name, dammit—Kafka—who realizes that the weight of her past is too much for anyone to handle. 

From the death and destruction of Kafka’s familial home. To the ropes that Kafka used to bind herself tightly under her sheets at night. To the women who came to Kafka and willingly submitted. To the unscrupulous ways Kafka dealt with those who had wronged the people she loved. Of the shadows that slept beneath Kafka’s bed, their tendrils threatening to leak out and brush against any light she allowed through the curtains of her bedroom. Of the Kafka that lies because she knows the truth is too much for any sane person to understand. She wants and she wants and she wants—but Himeko will never have that version of Kafka. 

…And Kafka, I’ve had enough. 

The cab ride back to Kafka’s apartment occurs in a tense, uneasy silence. The night is barely beginning when Himeko says that she wants to leave, and Kafka obliges without another word—another push for Himeko to just try to stay. 

Kafka sinks back into her seat, shadows and light slowly streaming over her face. Himeko sits rigidly at her side, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stares out the window, watching the city pass by in a blur. 

“Why would you think I would enjoy something like that?” 

“Because you asked me once what freedom looked like to me, and I wanted to show you.” 

“That wasn’t freedom, Kafka.” Himeko slowly shakes her head, “That was bondage and humiliation.”

“Well… there certainly was bondage.” Kafka says, chuckling darkly, “But humiliation… I would have to disagree with your assessment on that matter.” She turns slowly to gaze at the back of Himeko’s head, “You only saw the surface of it all. You didn’t see the choice. People choose this Himeko—I choose this. That’s the part you keep missing. ” 

“That wasn’t you.” Himeko murmurs back.

“That was me. …You just didn’t like the part that I showed you.” Kafka replies quietly. Her eyes glow faintly in the dim light, “I thought you wanted to feel… closer to me, Himeko.” 

“Closer?” Himeko repeats, turning to look over her shoulder at Kafka, “If that was your intention, then there’s something you should know—that was the furthest I’ve ever felt from you, Kafka.” 

For the first time that night, Kafka’s expression faltered—but Himeko couldn’t see it. Kafka’s lips parted as if she might laugh, dismiss it with another one of her dry retorts—but nothing came. The cab hit a pothole, the jolt rattling through the silence. Himeko turned back to the window, sighing as she reached up to massage her forehead. 

“You say you’re showing me your truth… but all I felt was like I was being dragged through another one of your games.”

“It wasn’t a game. I wouldn’t have taken you there if I thought this was just a game.”

“Then what do you take me for?” 

Kafka tilted her head back against the seat, her voice dropping into an almost whisper, “…I take you for the only one I’ve ever wanted to see me without the mask. …That’s all.”

The cab slowed to a stop at a red light. Himeko finally turned fully toward her,  “And what if I don’t want to see this part of you, Kafka? What then? Am I just another one who doesn’t understand? Another woman to be buried under your shadows?”

Kafka’s smile reappeared—small, bitter, and utterly joyless. “No. You’re the one that I wanted to understand. But wanting doesn’t make it so.”

The light changed and the cab lurched forward again, carrying them toward Kafka’s apartment in a silence so loud it threatened to crush them both. Kafka watched Himeko for a moment, before finally breaking the quiet.

“You know…” Kafka began, “There’s a game I sometimes play. It’s called Truth or Lie.”

Himeko raised a brow without looking at her. “Isn’t that what you already do with our relationship?”

Kafka’s lips curved into a smile, but there was no strength behind it, “Then you already know the rules.”

Himeko crossed her arms tighter. “I’m tired of your rules.”

“But you’re still playing.” Kafka countered. She turned her head to gaze out of the window at her side, “Two questions, two answers. A truth… and a lie.”

Himeko let out a short, incredulous laugh, “I don’t even know if I can tell the difference anymore.”

“That’s the beauty of it. …You don’t need to know, you just need to listen.”

Himeko sighed, rubbing her temple. “Do I even have a choice?”

“Is that one of your questions?” 

“No.” Himeko responds, “I’m asking this question outside of your little game.” 

“You always have a choice when it comes to me, Princess.” Kafka leaned back against the seat, “Are you ready to start then?”

Himeko’s brow furrowed as she began to think of a question, “Why… why did you bring me to that place with you tonight?”

Kafka turned to look at Himeko, catching slivers of her profile in the passing lights and shadows that filtered in through the window, “I took you to the Garden of Eden tonight …because I wanted you to see me without the mask for once.” Without waiting for Himeko’s response, Kafka continues on with her question, “…Do you really want me Himeko? Or do you only want the version of me that you can stomach?” 

The words struck harder than Himeko expected. Her throat tightened before she forced herself to respond, “I want you, Kafka. …But I don’t know if I can keep wandering down this path with you without losing myself in the process.” 

Kafka’s gaze lingered on Himeko, “…That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Is that your next question?” Himeko asks, slowly turning to look at her. 

Kafka shakes her head, “No, just musing aloud.” She clears her throat, “Go on, it’s your turn to ask the next question. Don’t waste it on something frivolous now.” 

Himeko stares at Kafka for a long time before she asks, “…Have you ever truly trusted anyone?”

Kafka blinks slowly at her, before her eyes briefly flicker away, “…Yes.” 

“And your question for me?” Himeko asks her, already knowing which of Kafka’s statements were the truth and lie. 

Kafka’s eyes flicker back up to Himeko, “…Have you ever wanted to leave me?”

Himeko’s chest tightened, before she swallowed and let the bitter words roll off her tongue.

…Yes.

And it was at that moment… that Kafka finally realized that she had been beaten at her own game.

Kafka bristles as Stelle’s hand lingers on her shoulder blade, her golden eyes bright with determination as the portable speaker on the coffee table brims with the sounds of some old timey tune. 

“I promise that it’s going to be easy. All you have to do is follow my lead.” 

Kafka stared down at her feet like they were a pair of foreign objects she had been cursed with. She looks up at Stelle, her mouth quirking upward into a frown, “Easy for you, maybe. I’ve orchestrated contracts that required less coordination than this.”

“Stop being dramatic. It’s just the foxtrot.” Stelle said, tugging her closer. 

“…Just the foxtrot, she says.” Kafka deadpans, “Remind me to tell you it’s just the violin the next time I foolishly let you touch my instrument.” 

Stelle rolled her eyes, despite the smile on her face, “Come on, Kafka. It’s just one-two-quick-quick. Don’t overthink it—just feel it.”

Kafka tried—really—she really did. But her heel caught on the edge of the rug and she stumbled straight into Stelle’s chest with an undignified yelp. 

Stelle grinned as she steadied her, “You’re terrible at this.”

“Thank you for the keen observation, when I already told you—I don’t dance.” Kafka replied, “We’d be better off hiring a professional to just perform for us. That seems easier, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the point. I want to dance with you, not watch someone else do it.” She repositioned Kafka’s hands murmuring teasingly, “Besides, you look cute when you’re flustered.”

Kafka narrowed her eyes. “Careful. Flattery will not make my feet any less of a liability.”

The music continued to play and Stelle continued to count under her breath as she guided Kafka through the steps. This time they made it three whole measures before Kafka stepped on Stelle’s foot. Stelle winced, then laughed outright, resting her forehead against Kafka’s shoulder.

“You’re hopeless.” Stelle pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, still laughing. “One more try. If you can make it across the room without tripping, I’ll let you pick dinner tonight.”

“And if I fail?” Kafka asked, already certain of the outcome.

“Then you owe me a dance. Every night. Until you get it right.” Stelle grinned, “Now shut up and dance with me.”

And so, despite Kafka’s graceless feet and muttered curses under her breath, they moved together across the room—an elegant foxtrot in Stelle’s imagination, and a stumbling disaster in Kafka’s reality. Yet, despite it all, Kafka felt herself surrendering to the pull of Stelle’s body against hers. Their movements were clumsy, the rhythm off, and Kafka muttered under her breath every time she stumbled. But still… Kafka found herself enjoying their silly little dance more than she let on. 

By the time the next song had nearly spun itself out, they weren’t even trying to foxtrot anymore. Kafka’s arms had slid higher, resting around Stelle’s neck as they stood in place and slowly swayed from side to side. 

“You know… you’re not so bad at this part.” Stelle murmured, staring into her eyes. 

“At what? Standing still?” Kafka asked.

“Hm, maybe.” Stelle hummed as she leaned in a little closer. 

For a moment, it seemed as if she might lean in for a kiss—but then, in one fluid swoop—Stelle slid her hands to Kafka’s waist and guided her backward. Kafka let out a startled gasp as her back arched into the dip, one of her feet lifting slightly off the ground. The room spun faintly as Kafka’s hands instinctively gripped at Stelle’s shoulders. 

Stelle’s lips curved into a teasing smirk, her gaze locked on Kafka’s. “Steady now. Don’t think, just trust me.”

“So… is this supposed to be your big move?” Kafka sighed, her bangs falling out of her face as her head lolled back once more, “You do this deliberately, don’t you?”

“Of course.” 

“You’re making me dizzy, Stelle.”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for a while now?” Stelle asks softly, her golden eyes glinting as Kafka looks up at her again. 

Kafka regards her for a moment, “…Perhaps I could get used to being tortured like this?”

Stelle laughs as she finally pulls Kafka up again, her hands smoothing over her back and settling on her waist, “Good. Because I plan on doing it again tomorrow.” 

“…What is this game?”

The TV screen has been flashing with chaos for the last hour. A combination of leather and bullets, exploding angels and …some large breasted, nude woman who kept summoning demons made out of her hair? 

Stelle sits cross-legged on the floor in front of Kafka with the controller in her hands, wholly absorbed in the flashing screen. “Bayonetta. It’s about this super hot witch who murders angels with guns strapped to her stilettos and has demons that live in her hair.” 

Kafka’s brows arched as she took a slow sip of her wine. She watches Bayonetta summon a large guillotine contraption and then proceed to rapidly kick some angel in the ass, before the guillotine comes slamming down on its head. You’ve been naughty—she croons. She blinks again, watching as Bayonetta attacks another enemy and screams—Micma!—and a metal horse arises from the ground as she sits perched on its head. Kafka’s eye brighten in recognition—was that supposed to be a wooden horse? 

Bayonetta swings her chain around, latching on to some angel creature with large breasts that jiggle as she pulls her onto the horse contraption. She pulls back on the chain and the angel creature starts moaning… in pleasure or pain—Kafka can’t tell—until she dies and falls off. Kafka takes another slow sip from her glass, narrowing her eyes at the back of Stelle’s head. 

“Interesting choice for tonight.” Kafka remarks, “Is this supposed to be a video game… or porn masquerading as substance?”

“Hmm?” Stelle glanced back briefly, “What do you mean? It’s just fun.”

“Fun. …Hm. That’s one word for it.” Kafka tilted her head, her voice dropping to a husky murmur that Stelle barely heard over the chaos of the game. “I’m starting to wonder if you enjoy the idea of being on the giving end… or if you’re satisfied with just receiving.”

Stelle paused the game, turning around to look at Kafka, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Focus on your game, puppy.” Kafka replies, leaning back into the couch cushions as her lips curved into a smirk. Her eyes lift to watch the game resume on the screen as Stelle turns back to it as well, “This game is absurd. And gratuitous.”

“And?” 

“And…” Kafka shrugs, “Somehow I find it charming.” 

“I figured you would.” Stelle chuckles. She pauses the game to lean back again and peer up at Kafka, “Wanna dress up as her for next Halloween? I can go as Jeanne and we can go to that club we went to for New Years and you can whip people all night or something.”

Kafka snorts, “You seriously want me to wear that in public?”

“I said what I said.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Stelle smiles brightly at her, gesturing toward the screen, “But, anyway. Enough about this game. You wanna play a few rounds of Megaton Punch in Kirby with me before those friends—“

“Children.” Kafka instantly corrects her. 

“—Right. Before they show up and we head out for the night?” 

Kafka shrugs, downing the last of her wine and shuffling off the couch to sit beside Stelle on the floor. Stelle beams as she makes her over to the Switch’s charging port and pulls two of the controllers off of the console, before handing them to Kafka. She loads up her shared file with Kafka in Kirby Super Star and wiggles excitedly as the mini game loads. Kafka sighs as she already knows how this is going to pan out before the match screen even loads up. 

Kafka’s concentration is evident, her fingers poised to hit the button at just the right minute as she watches the glowing power meter rising and falling. She times to hit it at max, along with the two green crosshairs that follow as they overlap one another. She pauses to look at Stelle as the clock begins swaying back and forth, before hitting it also at the right time—causing Kirby to land a punch that sends a solid crack through the entirety of Pop Star.

Stelle, on the other hand, is as unserious as usual. She’s not even trying to time the button press correctly. The punch her Waddle Dee emits is weak, barely cracking through the two grey stacks beneath them.

“…Are you even trying?” 

“Look, it’s not my fault I’m too busy enjoying myself. You’re always so intense about things when we play.”

“So you aren’t even taking this seriously?”

“I’m just letting you win.”

“…I win every time, Stelle.” 

Stelle licks the corner of her mouth as she watches Kirby on the screen looking happy that he won the match. She turns to Kafka, her eyes alit with mischief, “Okay. Then let’s see who can win by getting the worst score in the next set of matches.”

“You really want to go for the worst score this time?” Kafka asks, her eyebrows lifting slightly in amusement, “As if that’ll be a challenge for you.”

“You never know what can happen when you stop caring about winning.” 

“How redundant.” Kafka snorts, “Sounds good. I’ll beat you at this as well.”

The round begins and Kafka instantly hits all of her timed cues way too early, Kirby’s punch barely nudging the gray stack beneath him. She looks over at Stelle, who’s already trying to stifle her laugh. Stelle snorts as her Waddle Dee flails just as weakly—but somehow does even better than Kafka’s worse.

“Hm.” Kafka leans back against the couch as she loses the match of stupidity, “Not bad… if we were grading on absolute failure. Truly impressive. You’ve exquisitely captured the art of being terrible and presented me with a true masterpiece of incompetence.”

“Yes! Chaos achieved!”

“A miracle that, considering you weren’t even trying…” Kafka pauses, “…Or maybe you were.”  

“I don’t need to try to succeed.” Stelle tells her.

“I guess even failure counts as success in your book.” Kafka chuckles, setting her controller down beside her. She turned, silently studying Stelle for a moment. 

“Of course.” Stelle said, giving her a cheeky grin, “Just look at what I’ve done with you.”

Kafka’s mouth drops open, genuinely caught off guard. She recovers quickly, folding her arms over her chest and humming softly to herself as she closes her eyes, “You consider me a success of failure?”

“Well… you’re already pretty damn successful all by yourself.” Stelle tells her, “But… I’ve been dropping L’s left and right getting us to where we are now.” 

“But you’ve never dropped me.” Kafka reminds her, opening her eyes again and looking at Stelle. She lowers her gaze, a warm sort of fondness blooming deep within her chest, “…So I suppose you’re right about that one.” 

“Glad you finally admit it.” Stelle leaned back, smirking. “But don’t forget—I’m still the chaos queen here.”

“Chaos queen? More like a feral raccoon.” Kafka scoffed, “You’d crumble if I actually tried to match your unhinged energy.”

“You trying to intimidate me?”

“Oh… I don’t need to try, puppy.” 

Before Stelle could respond to Kafka’s bait—the bell chimed for the front door. Kafka slowly got to her feet and meandered over to the door and peered into the peephole. She hummed thoughtfully to herself, turning around to face Stelle who remained seated on the floor in the living room.

“Turn off the game, Stelle. Time for us to head out.” 

Dinner was at a quiet spot Black Swan had picked out for them—dim lighting, velvet booths, and candles on the tables that flickered gently. 

The restaurant buzzed with soft jazz music and the clinking of silverware. Kafka sat across from Acheron, legs crossed, one hand resting limply on her thigh. She hadn’t said much since they sat down. Her gaze remained somewhat distant and unfocused, like she wasn’t wholly present and something else was on her mind. 

She uncrossed her legs as she readjusted her position. Kafka reached for her wine glass as the same time that Stelle reached for the carafe of water between them. Kafka subtly flinched like she was expecting to be touched. And all Stelle could do was smile warmly at her in a quiet and knowing way. 

Acheron noticed the brief exchange, blinked once, then her eyes flickered over to Black Swan. Black Swan didn’t say anything, but the smile on her face told Acheron one thing—I saw it too. It was almost as if she were trying to preserve the fragile illusion of normalcy for Kafka’s sake. Or maybe… she wasn’t. 

“You two are rather quiet this evening.” Black Swan said. She set the menu down and glanced at Kafka who was still trying to bury herself in her wine glass. She turned her attention to Stelle, her smile brightening with mischief, “Sleeping well?” 

Stelle quickly glanced at Kafka, before she pulled her glass of water into her hands, “Better than ever, actually.”

Kafka sighed, resisting the urge to cover her face with her hands. 

“Are you sure?” Black Swan asked. She gave Kafka a pointed look, “You all but inhaled that wine, Kafka. Thirsty again?” 

Kafka gave her withering look, “No more than yourself, I can assure you.” 

Stelle subtly pressed her knee into the side of Kafka’s thigh, feeling the woman beside her flinch, “She’s just tired. Long night.”

Acheron’s eyes lifted to Kafka, “Tired?”

“Tired isn’t the word I would use.” Black Swan lowered her eyes, growing mildly amused, “You’re… glowing.”

“Must be the lighting.” Kafka murmured, her lower eyelid visibly twitching. She blinked slowly in an attempt to get it to stop, “Or perhaps you need to get your eyes checked. I can recommend you to an absolutely phenomenal optometrist if you need an exam.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Acheron asked. 

Kafka looked up at Acheron, “…Yes, why?”

“You keep blinking like there’s something stuck in your eye.” Acheron gestures toward Kafka’s lackadaisical expression on her face, “Or… has all the stress you’ve been under brought on a neurological condition of some sort?”

“While I appreciate your crass assessment and concern for my health, Peaches—I’m fine.“ Kafka snapped before she could stop herself. She winced and brought her wine glass to her lips to hide the flush creeping up her throat.

“You should go to the restroom if—”

Black Swan shot her a look and said sweetly, “Acheron.”

“I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?” Acheron asked. 

Stelle cleared her throat, completely unaware of the unspoken conversation that was occurring at the table. She glanced toward one of the waiters she saw walking around in the vicinity, “…Should we order food?” 

“Well… I think it’s nice that we were able to go out to dinner tonight. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” Black Swan said, taking a slow sip of her cocktail. She nodded to Stelle, “And yes… we should order food, shouldn’t we? Even though the both of you are looking well… fed.”

Kafka promptly spit out her wine, rushing to bring a napkin to her face. There was a moment of stunned silence before Stelle burst into laughter. Kafka closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and muttered something inaudible under her breath as her neck turned scarlet. Oh… someone had most certainly been making a feast of her.

Kafka dropped her cloth napkin onto the table and narrowed her eyes at Black Swan, “Careful who you aim your shots at, Odette. You never know when they’ll come back to haunt you.”

“Whatever do you mean, Kafka? It was merely a compliment.” Black Swan smiled mirthfully at Kafka. She cast a sideways glance at Stelle, “Its…just good to see that some things have been having a positive effect on you after all.” 

Stelle beams at Black Swan, her eyes brightening like an excited puppy wagging its tail, “I’ve been making sure she gets the rest she needs.” 

“You most certainly have been.” Acheron murmurs offhandedly, glancing briefly at Kafka, and quickly looking away when Kafka narrows her eyes in her direction. 

“I must admit, it’s so refreshing to see myself as the topic of conversation for once.” Kafka deadpans as she raises her hand to signal a waiter to come to their table to take their order.

After they all put in their orders and hand the menus off to the waiter, Black Swan leans forward on the table, the teasing in her tone falls away, replaced with something warmer, “…Certainly you must realize how worried you had us, Kafka.” 

“Is that why you called this dinner for tonight? For my purported post-recovery intervention?” Kafka drawls, her lips thinning as she takes another sip of her wine.

Acheron shakes her head, “No, it’s not that.”

A waiter drifted by with a tray of steaming dishes for another table, and the faint scent of roasted garlic cut through the air. Kafka set her glass down with more force than she meant to, the clink against the table loud enough to make Stelle glance at her.

“If it’s not that, Peaches—then perhaps you’ll enlighten me as to why I’m the centerpiece of this evening’s entertainment?”

Acheron glances at Black Swan and sees her nodding encouragingly, “It’s… because we missed you.” 

“Missed me?” Kafka drawled, an unspoken challenge in her tone, “…Or missed the convenience of me?”

“Kafka—” Stelle began, frowning at her tone. But she stopped when Kafka raised a single finger without looking at her—an unspoken command for silence.

Acheron’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t have space for convenient people in my life, Kafka.”

The veneer of detachment slipped slightly from Kafka’s face, enough for Acheron to catch the flicker of something softer. 

“You’re full of surprises tonight, Peaches.” Kafka said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “Careful—or people might start thinking I have a heart.”

Black Swan let out a soft laugh, swirling her cocktail. “How unexpectedly sentimental of you, darling.”

“I wasn’t being sentimental.” Acheron muttered.

“See? I told you this would be good for all of us.” Black Swan leaned forward, her smile brightening “With nowhere to be and nothing left to enjoy but one another’s company. What could be better?”

“…Silence.” Kafka deadpanned, but the warmth in her voice betrayed her.

A waiter stopped by their table with a bread basket and olive oil, slipping easily into the pause in the conversation. Stelle reached for the bread basket, breaking a piece in half and offering the other end to Kafka. Kafka gave it a cursory glance, and dipped it into the olive oil. 

“You know…” She chewed flatly and then swallowed, “…Serving bread with olive oil doesn’t make the establishment any fancier. Would have been better with butter.”

Black Swan rested her chin in her palm, clearly delighted with Kafka’s critiques, “It’s all just filler for the main course anyway.”

Stelle glances up at Kafka, “It tastes fine to me.”

“Of course it does.” Kafka cooed teasingly, “You’d eat gravel if someone plated it nicely.”

Stelle frowned, pretending like was affronted, “Hey.”

Black Swan’s smile curved wider, “And you see, this is why we invited you out tonight, Kafka. You bring such… warmth to the table.”

Stelle leaned in, looking to get in on the teasing, “If you think she’s grumpy now, you should see her first thing in the morning.” 

Acheron actually snorted, muffling it behind her hand. Kafka gave her a withering look on, yet there was no strength behind it. The conversation lapsed into a brief silence again as a waiter began to arrive with their dishes. Once everyone had been properly served, Kafka leaned back into the booth, growing pensive. 

“So.” Kafka prodded, glancing between Acheron and Black Swan, “Is this all you two had planned for us tonight? Or were you looking to spend the whole night torturing me with your antics?”

“We can do something if you’re up for it.” Black Swan replies, swirling some spaghetti onto her fork, “Did you have something in mind?” 

Kafka glances at Stelle for a moment, before she suggests, “…Karaoke?”

Acheron‘s eyebrows rose slightly, “Seriously?”

“It’s been ages for the two of us, hasn’t it?” Kafka asks, a fondness settling over her expression, “…Last time must have been right before I left Izumo and returned to New Babylon to take care of… things.”

“I could go for karaoke.” Stelle said. She turned to Kafka, nudging her with her shoulder. “Can I dedicate another 80s love ballad to you again?”

Kafka groaned, feeling her cheeks flushing slightly when Black Swan and Acheron looked her way. This uncouth youngin’ of hers would be the death of her. “Stelle… Cheri Cheri Lady is hardly an 80s love ballad.” 

“Pleeease?” Stelle pouted, leaning in closer and causing Kafka to draw back against the seat, “You enjoyed it last time didn’t you?”

“I… tolerated it.” Kafka replies, turning away and stabbing a fork into her salad.

“You also sat there and judged everyone, too.” Stelle reminds her. 

“That’s her favorite pastime.” Acheron chimes in. She quickly lowers her gaze when Kafka stares at her, eyes unblinking. 

“Fine—you can sing one song for me again.” Kafka acquiesed. She couldn’t refute the warmth flooding her chest as Stelle bounced next to her, practically vibrating with excitement. “But, if you sing Cheri Cheri Lady again—I’m leaving you there.”

Stelle laughed and shook her head. “No promises.”

The karaoke bar was the kind of place that looked sticky even when it wasn’t. Dim lights, battered booths, and a stage that had clearly seen better nights. The sound system popped and crackled, and the book for the menu of songs was laminated.

Kafka leaned against a wall, arms crossed, already regretting her life choices. Acheron stood stoically beside her, calmly waiting for the foolishness of the night to really emerge. She eyed Black Swan dragging Stelle off toward the stage, a willing participant who needed little coercion. 

“You know…” Kafka drawled as she watched Black Swan and Stelle conspiring together as they flip through the book of songs, “The last time I was in one of these places was when Stelle formally introduced me to her friends.”

“And how did that go?” Acheron asks her. 

Kafka goes offline for a moment—her eyes turning blank as she stares off into the distance at the memory of that hot summer night. 

Stelle—Okay, this one’s for Kafka—and the glimmer in her eyes as she downed her drink and pulled away from their table in search of the stage. March 7th had drunkenly cheered her on from the sidelines, while Dan Heng just shook his head, half-smiling at the absurdity he knew was about to unfold.

The opening notes of Cheri Cheri Lady by Modern Talking blared through the speakers, and Stelle immediately started dancing like she was in an old 80s pop music video. Her arms flailed in all directions as she bounced and twirled, completely off sync with the music. She sang completely off-key, her voice wavering with emphasis at all the wrong points—but her confidence was palpable. 

The crowd was eating it up, but it was impossible to ignore the hilarity of it all. And Kafka… she was frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the spectacle. 

It wasn’t just that the performance was embarrassingly bad, it was the fact that the sheer sincerity in Stelle’s chaotic energy had made it endearing in some respect. It was as if she didn’t care at all what people thought. And as much as she hated to admit it—Kafka could feel her cheeks warming as the softest blush began creeping up her neck.

“It was an experience.” Kafka merely tells Acheron as she drags her hand over her face, “Just like it’s bound to be once again.”

“What do you think they’re going to sing?” Acheron asks, watching as Black Swan excitedly takes the stage with Stelle and raises the microphone to her lips. She waves to Acheron and Acheron returns it with a slight wiggle of her fingers. 

Before Kafka can respond, the first few notes of Black Swan and Stelle’s chosen song comes blasting through the crackling speakers. The beat is unmistakable even under the cheap distortion of bad sound equipment.

“YEEAAAAHHHHHHHH…” Stelle wailed into her microphone. The sound system screeched and crackled, making her sound more off key than she actually was. “You are… my fire… "

Kafka let out a slow and pained exhale as she slaps her forehead. 

“This was your idea.” Acheron reminded her.

Kafka didn’t deny it. She just gave Acheron a sideways glance that said the obvious—they both knew what they were signing up for when everyone agreed to this. She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes as the sound system continued to crackle and screech.

Black Swan joined in flawlessly, her voice lower but somehow even more dramatic. She sweeps one arm out like she was performing for a sold-out arena, instead of a half-empty dive bar. “…The one… desire…”

“Believe… when I say…” Stelle continued, turning to look at Black Swan, preparing to harmonize. 

“I want it… that way!” Stelle bellowed, almost toppling over in her enthusiasm. Black Swan hit the note with precision, dramatically gesturing toward the ceiling.

Kafka sighed, “…Why did I think this would be a good idea?”

Acheron tilted her head in honest appraisal, watching Black Swan as she swiveled her hips from side to side, “An exercise in bonding, perhaps?” She winces as she sound system screeches again as Stelle screams—TELL ME WHY!—and Black Swan backs her up with a sultry—Ain’t nothing but a mistake.

“I need… another drink.” Kafka muttered.

And despite all the stupefying grandeur of such a horrifying performance, Kafka felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth anyway. Stelle looked so stupidly earnest, bright-eyed and brimming with energy, as she sauntered around the stage like a complete fool.  Black Swan blew a heart to Acheron and Kafka almost gagged when Acheron smiled and raised her hand up to catch it. 

When the song finally collapsed into static and applause—the loudest of which was coming from Acheron—Stelle came bounding back over to Kafka, still glowing from the effort.

“So?” Stelle asked, breathless and beaming. “…How bad was it?”

Kafka regarded her for a long moment, “Bad enough that I held off on drinking anything until you were done.” She nods her head off toward the bar, “Go. I require payment for your crimes.” 

“Roger.” Stelle straightens her posture, giving Kafka a mock salute. 

She bounced over to the bar, dragging Black Swan along, both of them laughing to themselves about their crowd rousing performance. Kafka nodded her head off to the side, instructing Acheron to follow her as she found a table for them to sit at near the back of the bar. Just as they were seated, Black Swan and Stelle returned with two drinks—a neat gin for Kafka, and a cocktail for Acheron.

“Here.” Stelle said, smiling as she slid Kafka’s drink toward her, “Payment as requested. For surviving that… spectacle.”

Black Swan handed Acheron her cocktail with a small smile, “We’ll be back with our own in a bit. Try to behave while we’re gone.” She added with a small wink.

“I think you should follow your own advice in that regard.” Kafka muttered, lifting her glass to her lips.

Black Swan could only smile as Stelle hooked her arm into Black Swan’s elbow and pulled her away toward the bar once again. Acheron watched them go for a moment, and then swirled her cocktail around before taking a sip. The bar’s noise dimmed to a soft murmur around them, as Acheron and Kafka sat in companionable silence. Yet, Kafka could tell there was something on Acheron’s mind from the way that she stared into her glass, watching the ice clinking softly against its sides. 

“Spit it out, Peaches.”

Acheron slowly lifted her eyes to look at Kafka. She had that calm, unimpressed look on her face that she always did. One brow faintly arched, her eyes low and hazy, with her mouth quirked softly at the side. 

“What?” 

“You’ve got those puppy dog eyes aimed at me like you’re afraid I’m going to do something if you say the wrong thing.” Kafka replies, “You’re thinking about something. Loudly might I add.”

Acheron sighed and looked down, “It’s just… something happened recently.”

“Something like what?” Kafka tilted her head. “Another sex injury that you failed to mention to me?”

“No.” Acheron muttered. “…Well, maybe kind of.”

Kafka silently tilted her head, waiting for Acheron to answer her question. 

“So…” Acheron began carefully. Though the timing of her words couldn’t be worse as she watched Kafka taking a slow sip of her gin, “When …did you realize…you were …the bottom?”

Kafka choked mid-sip on her drink. The burn hit the back of her throat, and she brought a napkin to her mouth to cough the alcohol back up. She turned her head, trying to compose herself. But, Acheron had already caught it without her even saying anything. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Acheron.” Kafka muttered, narrowed eyes lifting. “Do you ever start conversations like a normal person?”

Acheron leaned back lazily into the booth, “It wasn’t really a conversation, though. More like an observation.”

“And your conclusion?”

Acheron shrugged her shoulders, “I got my answer when your posture changed.”

Kafka arched a brow, murmuring dryly, “Oh?”

“I mean logically I always thought I was a top…” 

“Need I remind you that you also fainted during an orgasm and nearly broke your girlfriend’s neck.”

“That was once!”

“It was once too much.”

Acheron sighed, “…You didn’t answer the question.”

“Who said I was a bottom?” Kafka asked, narrowing her eyes at her.

“It’s just that… you look better.” Acheron says, “…Happier.”

Kafka arched an eyebrow, setting her glass down on the table, “…You’re very lucky I don’t carry a weapon anymore.”

“It’s … really it’s not that offensive—” Acheron began, but Kafka cut her off before she could finish her thought.

“I have never…” Kafka said, clenching her teeth, “…bottomed for anyone.”

Acheron raised an eyebrow. “But what about—”

“Stelle does not count.” Kafka said instantly, readjusting herself in her seat, “She’s only an exception—and even then—it’s a controlled dynamic.”

“So… you’ve let her strap you?” 

“Acheron.”

Acheron rested her chin on her hand, “You know when I let Black Swan finally do it… I passed out.”

Kafka’s forehead creased slightly, “You seem to be having a lot of fainting spells during sex, Peaches. Is this something new? Do we need to take you to the doctor to get you checked out?” 

“It’s… just that…” Acheron lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushing over, “It’s that good when she does it.” 

Kafka paused, feeling something warm twist within the depths of her abdomen. She hadn’t fainted when Stelle had gone down on her… but that laughter of hers that had come on so suddenly and recently appeared… 

…Perhaps, they were bottoms after all. 

Acheron takes a sip of her cocktail, giving Kafka a pointed look, “I know the mask you wear, Kafka. And at dinner tonight, there weren’t any masks at that table. That was one hundred percent you.” 

“You don’t think I didn’t notice all those remarks you and Black Swan were making that went right over Stelle’s head?” 

“Of course not.” Acheron says, “I think… we were just enjoying the view? Seeing you in such a state… it’s like you’re practically glowing and you don’t think anyone else knows.” She smiles softly at Kafka, “Just… whatever this is… hold on to it. Don’t lose it.” 

Kafka’s lips pressed into a tight line, staring down into her drink. “She’s… not afraid of me.”

“She sees you.” Acheron said. 

“Yeah…” Kafka said, almost to herself. “She does.”

“Do you think it’s love?” 

“Something like that, perhaps.” 

Acheron took another sip of her drink, “So…” She began casually, “…Just how many times did she make you come?”

Kafka nearly choked on her gin again, “Acheron.”

“What? I just told you that I practically pass out every time Black Swan makes me come.” Acheron said innocently, “You opened this door. I’m just walking through it.”

Kafka pinched the bridge of her nose, before muttering, “…I’ve lost count.”

Now that made Acheron blink. She reclined back into the booth, her eyebrows rising, “Shit.” 

Kafka reached for her drink again, refusing to meet Acheron’s eyes, “...Yeah.”

“And here I thought I had stamina.”

“You’re …really not helping, Peaches.”

“I’m not trying to.” Acheron said, a small smile of warmth coming to her face. 

Kafka groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

Acheron looked down into her drink, feeling an odd sense of mischief rising from within. It was something to be on the other side, wasn’t it?

She set her glass down on the table and leaned in, “You’re oddly embarrassed for someone who seemed to like it a lot.” She tilted her head to the side, “…Did she call you something silly like… baby and you—“

“Shut up!” Kafka smacked her hand down on the table with a sharp thud, rattling their glasses. She ran a hand through her hair, muttering under her breath. “Why do I talk to you?”

“Because no one else would dare mock you to your face and still get away with it.”

Kafka leaned back into the booth seat with a sigh. Her eyes trailed over to the bar where Stelle and Black Swan were deep in conversation with the bartender, gesturing animatedly over the menu. Acheron followed her gaze, her eyes softening at the sight. 

“They’re …oddly protective of us, aren’t they?” Kafka remarked, “…Like two beings born of some feral and chaotic energy that I will never understand.” 

“Sometimes…” Acheron admits, “…I think of Black Swan as a fowl honking people to death.”

“I think that’s somewhat accurate considering what she’s done for you.” Kafka chuckles, “I haven’t figured out if Stelle’s more of a puppy… or a raccoon. There’s the loud and stubborn part of her that barks at everything she thinks might be a threat… and then there’s this other part that I can’t quite figure out.” 

“You know…” Acheron begins, albeit a bit sheepishly, “I’ve started writing this …story as a therapeutic exercise outside of my regular sessions with my therapist.” 

“Oh?” Kafka asked, “And what’s that about?” 

“Uhm, well. It’s like I said…” Acheron lowered her gaze, growing more self conscious. Only the truly deranged could handle the magnificent splendor of Penacony Forest Friends. “…Black Swan’s a swan that honks people to death for me.” 

“How charming.” Kafka’s eyebrows lift in vague amusement, “And what about me—am I in these little stories of yours that you’ve been conjuring up?”

“Kind of.” Acheron says, her voice growing lower, “Your character… has a lot of guns.”

Kafka grins, “How on the nose, Peaches.” 

Acheron clears her throat, looking to change the subject before she embarrasses herself further. She turns to look at Stelle and Black Swan again, “Anyway… they mean well. In their own way.” 

“Yeah…” Kafka murmured, echoing the sentiment as she followed Acheron’s gaze, “…They do.”

Across the way at the bar, Black Swan picked up her cocktail, the condensation leaving behind a faint circle on the polished wood. Beside her, Stelle glanced over to where Acheron and Kafka were sitting in the booth and staring at them. She leaned in, lowering her voice to whisper to Black Swan.

“They look like they’re planning a hit on us for what we did earlier.” 

“I assure you they aren’t.” Black Swan chuckled, “Perhaps… merely catching one another up to speed with things that aren’t meant for our ears to hear.” 

“Maybe…” Stelle says, turning back to the bar, “You know… I used to think Acheron was… kind of scary.”

“Most people do. But I assure you, she’s no scarier than a small, shy garden snake.” Black Swan quickly assures her with a slight curve of her lips, “About as harmless as one too.” 

“Perhaps.” Stelle shrugs her shoulders, “But… she’s kind of like Kafka, isn’t she? Looks scarier than she actually is.” 

“Mmm. Kafka…” Black Swan tilts her head to the side, “Whatever you’ve been doing lately has seemed to return her back to normal.”

Stelle perked up a bit, “You think?” 

“Oh, my dear. I know.” Black Swan said, waving her fingers slightly as she caught Acheron’s eye from across the room. She nodded her head slightly when she saw the small smile coming to Acheron’s face, “Look at that. Those two act like they’re made entirely of steel and sharp edges… but they’re practically marshmallows when given the right amount of love and attention.” 

“Nah, not a marshmallow. Kafka’s more of a squishy bean if anything.” Stelle mutters absentmindedly, her gaze drifting toward the stage once more as someone finished up a terrible rendition of Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light. 

“Thinking about singing again?” Black Swan asks, taking a sip of her cocktail and watching Stelle set her empty beer bottle on the bar top. 

“Oh yeah.” Stelle answered with a grin, “A solo this time. But… catch you on the next one?” 

“Of course.” Black Swan gestures, before sauntering off toward the table where Acheron and Kafka are sitting, “Off with you then. Make her proud.” 

Acheron perked up as Black Swan slowly approached, sliding into the space beside her at the table. She slid her arm around Black Swan’s waist, scooting a bit closer to sidle up next to her. Kafka resisted the urge to gag, knowing there was no space for it after Acheron had so carefully dismantled her a few moments ago during their little chat. Instead, she gestured toward where Stelle was ambling up onto the stage. 

“You let her go at it alone?” Kafka sighed. 

“She wanted to.” Black Swan responds, “Seemed like there was something important that she—“

Black Swan barely has a chance to finish her sentence before the terrible sound system crackled to life once more and the opening notes of Cheri Cheri Lady begin to play. Kafka feels her shoulders go up to her ears as she hears Stelle screaming into the microphone—OH I CANNOT EXPLAIN, EVERY TIME, IT’S THE SAME. OH I FEEL THAT IT’S REAL, TAKE MY HEART—and the feedback squeals so loudly that it makes everyone in the bar collectively wince at the same time. 

“THIS ONE’S FOR YOU KAFYBEAN!” 

Stelle twirls around, exaggeratedly gesticulating in the direction of the booth in the back where she can see Kafka slowly sinking further down into the seat. She sways dramatically to the music and lets out a loud whoop. Kafka slowly covers her face with one of her hands as Black Swan is enthusiastically clapping along to the song and Acheron silently observes. Stelle hits the chorus with a dramatic—CHERI CHERI LA-DY. GOING THROUGH A MO-TION. LOVE IS WHERE YOU FIND IT. LISTEN TO YOUR HEARRRTTTTT. 

“She really doesn’t care who’s watching, does she?” Acheron asks, stating the obvious. 

“I think it’s charming.” Black Swan coos.

And all Kafka could do was watch as Stelle began karate chopping at the air—screaming CHERI CHERI LADY and gyrating on the stage—praying that this night would soon come to an end. 

“Hey, Red!”

Bang—the shattering of a wall and the cheerful screech of an all too familiar voice. Kafka turned away from the Penacony skyline as Stelle cartwheeled into view, dressed in Harley Quinn’s classic crop top and short-shorts. Her pigtails sparkled with streaks of glitter and her grin was feral, bordering on manic. 

“Damn.” Stelle let out an appreciative whistle as she gave Kafka the once over, “You’re looking hot enough to photosynthesize me into next week.”

Kafka looked down at her own ensemble—some garish green thing covered in flowers that she would have never been caught dead wearing in the waking world. She sighed, looking back up at Stelle, “That’s… not how photosynthesis works, puppy.”

“Who cares! Science is boring.” Stelle grinned again, “I don’t need to know shit about atoms or covalence bombs or whatever to know that the scientific method will always tell me that you’re hot.”

“You… said that already.” Kafka sighed, watching Stelle flip over toward her in an insane feat of acrobatic prowess. 

“Anyway, ya wanna wreck the city together?” Stelle asks, twirling around and pulling a bazooka out from God knows where, “Wanna blow up some shit? Or maybe do more gay shit and kiss one another until Penacony drowns in pollen?”She wiggles her eyebrows flirtatiously, “Or maybe you want me to tangled up in all your vines.”

Before Kafka could reply she heard that familiar giggling again. High-pitched and sing-song, but still unmistakably in her own voice. A vine unfurled at her feet, twisting its way up along her leg and curling around her arm. A shuddering pink carnation bloomed within the dip of her neck, giggling again when Kafka looked down and grimaced at it. 

“Hehehe… Stel—“

Kafka immediately snapped. Without hesitation, she yanked the flower from off of its vine and shoved it into her mouth. Nectar burst across her tongue, sticky and sweet. The petals crunched faintly, the laughter being subdued into silence. And for a second, everything went still. 

Until Stelle burst out into uncontrollable laughter, doubling over at the waist, “Red. What was that?! You just ATE your own flower!” She wiped a finger across her eye, “That’s the most metal thing I’ve ever seen—sexy AND terrifying. You’re like, sexy Jaws …but for plants.”

Kafka swallowed the flower with a grimace, “…They won’t shut up.”

“Who cares, I think a new kink has just been unlocked!” Stelle squealed, standing upright once more, “A cannibal-botanist! Penacony ain’t ready for it!”

Before Stelle could continue rambling on about her plant cannibalism kink, a thunderclap crackled across Penacony’s pink sky, the Bat-Signal flaring high and bright. The flowers that had started to bloom around her and Kafka all shrieked in sheer terror and folded back into their buds, trembling on their stems. 

“Enough.” 

A shadow descended from above, a cape flapping ominously as it cut through the air—black and heavy as night itself. Boots slammed onto the rooftop in front of them and everything seemed to fall into a hush. Kafka froze as the figure stood up… seeing none other than Himeko standing there dressed like Batman… or Batwoman. Or whatever. 

Stelle immediately jumped in front of Kafka, bazooka at the ready, “Whoa-ho-ho, Batsy! Didn’t know you were rockin’ the MILF look now.”

“Do you two have any idea how much property damage you’ve caused tonight?” Himeko asked, her voice low and gravely, as she flicked a batarang from her belt. Except, when it left her hand, it wasn’t a weapon at all. It unfolded into a steaming porcelain teacup, landing daintily in Kafka’s waiting hand.

“Chamomile?” Kafka asked, arching a brow.

“Shut up.” Himeko muttered.

Stelle gasped dramatically, “HEY! Don’t talk talk to my Red like that, Batsy!”

The rooftop trembled beneath their feet, tiles splitting apart as neon-pink vines suddenly erupted upward, wrapping around the edges of the building. Kafka didn’t move—she just took a long sip of chamomile like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Alright, Bat-MILF—if you wanna tussle, you better be ready to lose custody of Penacony.” She balanced her bazooka on top of her shoulder and pulled the trigger. But instead of firing rockets, it coughed out a stream of glittery rubber cake cats that squeaked as they bounced across the roof.

Himeko raised her hand and a swarm of tiny French presses flew out from under her cape, each one releasing clouds of steam that smelled of coffee and were shaped like bats. The cake cats squeaked louder, clearly overwhelmed. Stelle flailed her arms and shrieked—SHE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO FIGHT BACK!

Kafka sighed, tapping the rim of her teacup. “Stelle, this is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously AWESOME.” Stelle corrected, defying the law of physics as she flipped in front of Kafka with a single leap. She landed in a crouch, striking a pose like she’d rehearsed it in the mirror. “Don’t worry, Red. I’ll protect you from those wretched caffeine crusaders!”

The vines around Kafka shuddered, their buds opening again. But instead of flowers, out popped dozens of tiny versions of Kafka’s own head, each giggling and whispering in unison. “Drink the tea… drink the tea…”

Kafka ground her teeth. “…Why is this happening?”

Himeko adjusted her cape, “I am the vengeance. I am the night. I am…” She paused, pulling out another batarang that unfolded into a French press. “…Your barista.”

Kafka, finally having had enough of this stupidity, chucked the cup of tea to the floor. She snapped her fingers, and the vines creeping around the building instantly wrapped around Stelle, hoisting her up upside down. Stelle flailed wildly, laughing as her bazooka clattered to the ground. 

“Yesss! Tie me up, Mommy Nature!” She moaned. 

“...You’re not helping.” Kafka muttered, massaging her temple.

“Looking to run away again, Poison Kaffy?” Himeko snapped as she crossed her arms over her chest, “Always drowning in lust and dressing it up as freedom. You think this clown loves you? She’ll laugh while you burn.”

Stelle, still dangling upside down in Kafka’s vines, let out the loudest gasp imaginable. “EXCUSE ME?!” She shouted, kicking her legs out, “I’ll have you know my love is one hundred percent certified organic, gluten-free, and emotionally chaotic GOOD.”

Kafka sighed as she looked to the pink sky and prayed for it to swallow her whole. The little vine-heads around her were still whispering in unison—burn, burn, burn—before abruptly changing their chant to kill, love, kiss.

Himeko stepped forward, “You pretend that you need her, but you don’t. After all, poison thrives alone.”

Stelle stopped struggling and just stared at Himeko, before letting out a loud laugh, “Kafka, babe—tell me you hear this right now. She’s trying to do the whole brooding bat thing and she’s literally saying you’re too sexy to have friends.”

“I know what she’s saying Stelle.” Kafka replied, finally turning away from the sky to look at Himeko, “And… even though she may believe there’s some sort of truth to her words…”

“Yeah?” Stelle asks, her legs splaying out in the air as Kafka beckons the vine wrapped around Stelle’s waist to come closer, “You’re gonna MASH HER FACE IN… right?”

Kafka shakes her head, “No.” 

Instead, the insanity of the dream dissolved into something more fitting that Kafka truly desired. 

The pink sky burned into a bright blue as sunflowers sprouted from traffic lights and an endless sea of grass unfurled from the cracks within the streets. Penacony’s skyline bent sideways like a melting painting and Kafka breathed into the release as the chaos faded from view when she closed her eyes. 

When she opened her eyes again, Kafka found herself lying naked beneath the warmth of the sun in a sprawling meadow. The scent of wildflowers was heavy in the air, the petals beneath her embracing her in their gentle caress. She looked up to find Stelle sitting beside her, fingers gently threading small pink flowers through Kafka’s hair. She tucked them behind her ears, her fingers ghosting along the curve of her neck and trailing down to her collarbone. 

There was peace, there was quiet. No crazy Penacony-Gotham fever dreams. No Bat-Himeko or Harley Stelle or Poison Kaffy. Quivering sentient flowers, squeaking cake cats, or French presses that could transform into batarangs. It was just her, Stelle, and the faint sound of violin strings in the distance. Kafka closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, falling further into the comforting warmth of the flowers beneath her. 

Stelle leaned down, her face lighting up with a soft and playful smile as she whispered in Kafka’s ear. 

…Simply beautiful, isn’t it?