The air is cold. Not biting, but sharp — the kind that makes breath visible and silence feel heavier.
Kiko’s already waiting. Her lantern glows beside her, casting soft light on her slippers, her tail, the edge of the railing. She leans forward, ears twitching nervously, tail swaying like a pendulum. Her whisker‑strands tremble, catching the glow like threads of frost.
Shun steps out slowly, matching her posture. He lifts his hand, fingers outstretched, palm open. The gap between them is small — a few meters, a few heartbeats — but it feels vast.
She mirrors him. Her hand rises, hesitant. Their fingers brush.
Her ears flick fast, tail curling around her wrist. She doesn’t pull back.
“𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓶… 𝓷𝔂𝓪,” she whispers, cheeks glowing faintly in the lantern light.
She presses her palm against his, claws barely peeking before retracting shyly. Her fingers are soft, cool, trembling. The contact is fragile — not dramatic, not cinematic — just real.
No song. No words. Only breath. Only skin.
Shun’s sketchbook lies forgotten on the windowsill. His other hand grips the railing, knuckles pale. He’s afraid to move, afraid to break the moment.
Kiko’s tail wraps tighter, then loosens. Her ears tilt forward, listening not to sound, but to feeling. Her whiskers twitch once, then settle.
She leans in, just slightly. Enough for her forehead to touch the edge of the railing. Enough for her scent — faintly sweet, like plum and rain — to reach him.
He closes his eyes. Not to escape, but to stay.
The lanterns flicker. The wind shifts. Somewhere below, a cat meows, distant and irrelevant.
The night belongs to them. Not the city. Not the buildings. Just them — stitched together by feline tenderness, by quiet bravery, by the soft miracle of touch.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.