The next evening, Kiko appears again — perched on the railing like it belongs to her. Her ears swivel at every sound: distant laughter, the soft clink of glass, a cat yowling somewhere below. She’s alert, but relaxed, knees hugged to her chest, tail flicking in slow arcs.
Shun steps out, unsure if she’ll notice. He waves — hesitant, almost apologetic.
She blinks. Then raises her hand, fingers fluttering like a leaf caught in wind.
“𝓖𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰… 𝓷𝔂𝓪.”
The word slips out, unguarded. Her eyes widen, and she laughs at herself, muffled behind her tail. It wraps around her face like a scarf, whisker‑strands trembling with the motion.
He chuckles. The tension breaks like thin ice.
She leans forward, elbows on knees, sniffing the air — not theatrically, but instinctively. Her whiskers twitch, testing the scent between them.
“𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓽,” she teases, voice soft, eyes narrowing with feline amusement.
He nods. Artist. Guilty.
Her ears perk. Tail swishes once, then again, brushing the railing with a rhythm that matches her rising interest. She shifts her weight, claws tapping the metal — a tiny tik‑tik‑tik — before retracting.
“𝓐𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓼𝓽…” she repeats, tasting the word like a new flavor.
She studies him — not staring, but sensing. Her pupils widen, reflecting the alley’s glow. She tilts her head, tail curling into a loose spiral, body language open, curious.
Between them, the gap feels smaller. Not physically — but in tone, in rhythm, in the way two strangers begin to orbit each other.
Something new has begun. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet thread, stitched from scent and sound and the soft glow of shared attention.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.