Tonight, Kiko speaks more.
She leans on the railing, ears low, tail wrapped tight around her waist like a belt. Her whisker‑strands tremble faintly, catching the glow from a nearby window. She scratches lightly at them — not out of discomfort, but habit. A nervous tic.
“𝓘𝓽’𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭, 𝓷𝔂𝓪… 𝓱𝓲𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓼, 𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵, 𝔀𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓴𝓮𝓻𝓼. 𝓟𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓮.”
Her voice is quiet, but not weak. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from holding back too long.
Shun listens, sketchbook in hand. He doesn’t interrupt. His pencil moves slowly, tracing her silhouette — the curve of her tail, the way her ears droop when she speaks, the tension in her shoulders. He draws not to capture, but to understand.
She glances at him, eyes flicking to the page. Her tail twitches once, then stills.
“Yoᑌ ᗪoᑎ’t ᑎeeᗪ to ᕼiᗪe ᗯitᕼ ᗰe,” he says softly, not looking up.
Her ears twitch. Once. Twice. Then settle.
She shifts her weight, leaning further into the railing, the metal cold against her arms. Her whiskers tremble again — not from wind, but from something inside. She watches him draw, eyes shimmering, tail loosening from its knot.
“𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓲𝓽?”
He nods.
She doesn’t smile. Not yet. But her posture changes — subtly. Her shoulders drop. Her tail sways, slow and unguarded. She lifts one hand, brushing her whiskers gently, as if testing whether they’re allowed to be seen.
A faint purr escapes her — soft, involuntary. It vibrates across the gap, barely audible, but unmistakable.
Shun pauses his sketching. He looks up. Their eyes meet.
For the first time, she lets her tail sway freely. No tension. No hiding. Her ears lift, not high, but enough. Her whiskers shimmer in the light, no longer tucked away.
The night feels intimate. Fragile. Real.
Between them, the silence is no longer empty. It’s full — of trust, of breath, of the quiet relief of being seen.
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