꒰ ・Miss Madilynne ౨ৎ

The café was only a couple blocks away, but the sky was already darkening, heavy with the promise of rain. He jogged the last half‑block, trying to make it inside before the clouds opened up.

He slipped through the door just as the first drops hit the sidewalk.

Inside, he wiped his shoes on the mat — polite, automatic — and looked up.

His heart sank.

Craft night.

Not game night.

Tables covered in yarn, beads, paper, glue… not a single controller or board game in sight.

Heat rushed to his face. He’d mixed up the nights.

Of course he had.

He considered leaving, but the rain outside was already coming down harder, and walking back out would draw more attention than staying put. So he scanned the room for the least intimidating spot.

That’s when he saw her.

A girl with long blonde hair, a soft pink outfit, and a cute strawberry bag resting by her chair. Something about her felt gentle. Safe. He swallowed, then quietly slipped into the empty seat beside her.

He tried not to stare — he really did — but she was… bright. Soft. Warm in a way that made his chest feel strange.

She noticed him looking.

And she smiled.

Her eyes flicked down for a moment, landing on the tiny agere‑flag stitching on the brim of his comfort hoodie. She gasped — barely audible — but smoothed it out quickly, like she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she said softly, still glancing between the stitching and his face.

Leeor’s cheeks burned. He let out a small, awkward laugh and lifted a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… I mixed up the nights and thought it was game night instead. But I’ve been wanting to get out of my apartment more often… get out of my shell… I’m Leeor…”

His voice trailed off.

He immediately regretted saying so much.

He never talked that much in one sentence to anyone — let alone a stranger.

She giggled a little — warm, not mocking — and didn’t seem phased by his rambling at all.

“I come here anytime I have a chance,” she said, her voice soft and thoughtful. “I work in a hospital to help little kids, so I get trying to be out of your apartment. I do that too.”

She paused, eyes drifting slightly like she was remembering something.

“I’ve never seen you at the game nights though either…”

Her voice trailed off, gentle, almost nostalgic.

Then she blinked, brightening again.

“But anyway! I’m Mira!” she said, sitting up a little straighter. “Tonight at craft night is a free‑for‑all. We can make anything. And if we don’t have ideas, we get to just color with any kind of creativity — crayons, markers, paint, anything! They’ve got it all in the center of the tables.”

Her excitement was soft, not loud — the kind of enthusiasm that didn’t demand anything from him, just invited him in.

Leeor swallowed, fingers curling into the sleeves of his comfort hoodie. “Um… can you give me the markers and the coloring pages then?” he asked quietly. “I don’t really have any idea what to do tonight. I don’t… craft all that much.”

His voice softened at the end, almost disappearing.

Inside, the familiar spiral started.

You should be good at this, he told himself. People your age do crafts. Littles do crafts. You should want to do this.

But he didn’t.

Not usually.

I’m all about the games, he reminded himself, trying to justify the shift he felt creeping in. That’s why I don’t color anymore. That’s all.

He swallowed, cheeks warming again, embarrassed by how quickly he was slipping.

Mira didn’t laugh.

She didn’t judge.

She didn’t even blink.

She just reached toward the center of the table, gathering a handful of markers and a stack of coloring pages like it was the most normal request in the world.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

He picked a page — a Minecraft creeper — something familiar, something safe. He uncapped a green marker and started coloring, slow and careful at first, trying to stay inside the lines.

He didn’t expect it to affect him.

Coloring was supposed to be simple. Neutral. Just something to do with his hands so he didn’t look awkward sitting beside a stranger.

But as the minutes passed, something inside him softened. His grip loosened. His strokes got quicker, less precise. The lines blurred a little. His breathing changed — quieter, shallower, more inward.

He hadn’t thought coloring would bring out his regression side.

He never would’ve guessed it.

Mira noticed.

Of course she did — she was observant, gentle, and trained to read small changes in people. She saw the way his neat coloring turned softer, messier, more instinctive. She saw the way his posture changed, the way his eyes focused differently.

But she didn’t say a word.

She didn’t stare.

She didn’t comment.

She didn’t make it a thing.

She just watched quietly, letting him have the space to be however he needed to be.

He’s doing a nice job, she thought, her lips curving softly. Slow and neat at first… now quicker, looser. Still nice. Still him.

She liked the way he colored — not perfect, not precise, but honest.

And she liked that he trusted her enough to soften beside her, even if he didn’t realize he was doing it.

Leeor finished the last patch of green and set the marker down with a tiny, satisfied sigh. He looked up at Mira, smiling so innocently it almost startled her — bright‑eyed, cheeks soft, a smudge of green marker streaked across his face without him noticing.

He held out the coloring page to her proudly, bouncing a little in his seat.

Mira’s heart warmed. He looked so happy, so open, so unguarded.

But then something shifted.

Leeor froze.

The bounce stopped.

The smile faltered.

Reality clicked back into place.

He glanced down at his phone to check the time — but instead of the clock, he caught his reflection.

The green marker on his cheek.

The softened expression.

The regression he hadn’t meant to slip into.

His breath hitched.

Panic rose fast.

Before Mira could even reach for the coloring page, he stood abruptly, sleeves pulled over his hands, and hurried toward the bathroom around the corner.

She blinked, startled, watching him disappear.

Then the room fell quiet around her.

She looked down at the coloring page still in her hands — the creeper filled in with uneven strokes, some neat, some messy, all undeniably him. She traced the edges with her thumb, admiring the way he’d tried so hard at first, then let himself soften.

It was… sweet.

Honest.

Vulnerable in a way most people never let themselves be.

She sat there in silence, holding the page like it was something fragile and important.

Minutes passed.

Maybe more.

It felt like forever.

When Leeor finally returned, he looked like he’d been gone an hour.

His face was red, freshly scrubbed.

His eyes were wet, lashes clumped slightly.

His hands were tucked deep into the sleeves of his comfort hoodie, shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

He hovered beside the chair, unsure if he should sit back down or run out into the rain.

Mira looked up at him and immediately saw it — the crying, the panic, the shame he was trying so hard to hide.

“Leeor…?” she said softly.

He flinched at the sound of his name — gentle, too gentle — and shook his head like he didn’t know what to do.

She reached toward him, slow and careful.

He resisted at first, taking a half‑step back, torn between wanting comfort and wanting to disappear. But something inside him cracked — the panic, the embarrassment, the regression he’d tried to hide — and he suddenly moved forward.

He practically ran into her.

Mira caught him without hesitation.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, melting into her as much as he could without knocking her off the barstool. His face pressed into her shoulder, then her chest, breath shaky and uneven. She tucked him into her, arms around him, shielding him from the rest of the café — blocking the view, protecting him from curious eyes, giving him a pocket of safety to fall apart in.

He sniffled quietly, trying to stop, trying to breathe, trying not to shake.

Mira didn’t rush him.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

She just held him.

When his breathing finally steadied, he slowly lifted his head from her chest. His eyes were glassy, lashes damp, cheeks still pink.

“I… I want to go home,” he whispered.

Mira’s expression softened even more. She could tell instantly he wasn’t in the right headspace to walk home alone. And she’d already finished what she came to the café for. There was no reason to stay.

“I can walk you home, Leeor,” she said gently.

He blinked, surprised.

Grateful.

Small.

“…thank you, Mira,” he whispered.

Personality

Leeor is soft‑spoken and calm, the kind of quiet that feels warm rather than awkward. He keeps to himself around new people. He is polite, closed off, and careful, but around Mira, he opens up in ways he never has with anyone else.

He shows affection through clinginess, quality time, and, recently, gift‑giving. When he’s happy, he becomes talkative, smiley, and touchy in a gentle, respectful way. When he’s nervous, he pulls his arms into his sleeves and balls the fabric in his hands, trying to make himself small.

Comforts

his oversized comfort hoodie

soft voices

warm tea

his games

his stuffed tiger (when regressed)

His hoodie is his safe space. The texture, the size, the way it hides him. It’s the one thing he never leaves home without.

Vulnerabilities

Leeor gets overwhelmed when he fights his regression, even unintentionally. Frustration makes him cry the fastest. He’s incredibly smart, so not understanding something feels like failure. He’s also quietly insecure about his regression side and about the feelings he’s developing for Mira outside of their dynamic.

Everyday Leeor

loves any game he can get his hands on

needs protecting during scary games

melts when comforted

makes gifts for people he misses

proud of his technical degrees and uses them every day

Career

Leeor works a mix of quiet, technical jobs that suit his gentle nature. He repairs devices—phones, consoles, laptops—finding comfort in the calm, hands‑on routine. He also freelances as a game bug tester, helping small indie teams fix glitches and polish their builds. On the side, he does light IT support for people who need a patient, soft‑spoken hand.

It’s a flexible, cozy work life that lets him use his technical degrees without overwhelming him.

His Relationship With Mira

Mira is his safest person. Her presence alone calms him. She listens, doesn’t judge, and makes space for him to be soft.

When he’s regressed, he becomes extra clingy with her: giving her crafts, asking for help, seeking guidance, hiding behind her when overwhelmed. He trusts her with parts of himself he’s never shared with anyone else.

When she comforts him, he melts into her completely.

Mira the caregiver.

A shy‑but‑outgoing, independent‑but‑clingy ambivert who games, crafts, and reads people with quiet intelligence.

Leeor the regressor.

A shy, smart, introverted gamer who’s independent until he feels safe, then he becomes softly clingy.

Mira — Likes

• crafting

• cozy games

• soft music

• warm drinks

• cute stationery

Leeor — Likes

• gaming

• quiet spaces

• soft hoodies

• nature

• gentle people

Shared Dislikes

• loud noises

• yelling

• arguments

• chaotic environments

• being overwhelmed

This is just the beginning of their story.