#yearner wrote

Jane see’s the sun dipping low over Lumina Square painting the glass and skyline in warm shades of copper and rose, the evening air is cold, turning her breath into puff of smoke. A similar scene of cigarettes after missions, she remembers. Jane walks through the square with a quiet weariness clinging to her shoulders. The mission had been long, grueling even by her standards, and though she hides it well behind her calm expression, her body aches in subtle protest.

She exhales deeply and rolls her shoulder, the motion accompanied by the curling of her half mechanical tail around her leg. Her bomber jacket shifts slightly as she moves, and the dying sunlight catches the glint of her ear piercings. The square isn’t too crowded, just a few late shoppers, a couple walking hand in hand, and street vendors starting to pack up their wares.

Then, without warning, something rolls across her path. It’s a small clay pot, wobbling to a stop right in front of her boots. Jane blinks down at it, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly in bemusement. “Huh.” She crouches, picking it up delicately with one fingerless gloved hand. A faint crack lined the rim, but it was otherwise intact. She might’ve set it aside if not for the voice that followed, breathless and worried. “Oh, I’m so sorry! You didn’t trip on it, did you?”

She turns her head, spotting you, a florist struggling to balance a tower of boxes, each filled with more pots than flowers. Your hair is a little messy, clothes dusted with bits of soil. Jane’s ear flicks once, her tail uncurling from her leg as she straightens to her full height.

“No, I’m fine.” she replies smoothly, her voice soft yet firm. Her eyes study you for a moment, a quick habitual scan that speaks of years of instinctive caution. But there’s no threat here, only a small shop owner on the verge of dropping everything they’re carrying. She relaxes her shoulders a little. “Maybe I should be the one asking if you’re alright? You look like you need some help.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, laughing awkwardly. “I think it’s quite rude of me to ask help from a stranger—”

Before you could finish, she steps closer. Jane lifts the box of pots from your arms with ease, as if it weighs nothing at all. Then, with a faint smile, she places the pot she found back into the box. “Well? Where should I put these?”

Her smile is disarming, effortlessly confident. She has an aura of a charmer and face of a beauty that could overthrow anyone if she suddenly talks to them. You freeze for a beat too long, clearly caught off guard. “I— In the back! I’ll, uh, lead you there.” Your voice comes out a little too high and Jane hums lightly in amusement, following you as you scramble to lead the way.

Inside, the air changes. it’s warmer, humid with the scent of soil and blooming flowers. Sunlight filters through the greenhouse glass ceiling, casting golden ribbons of light across rows of ferns, hydrangeas, and lilies. The shop is not small neither can it be called large, but it is full of life. Not quite the environment she’s used to but the beauty in the quiet chaos of nature around her is comforting somewhat.

Jane kneels and sets the box down gently on the floor, the sound of ceramic filled box clinking softly against cement. “Thank you so much… er…” you begin, brushing your hands nervously on your apron. “You can call me Jane.”

You smile, still flustered but undeniably grateful. “Thank you, Jane.” “You’re welcome.” she answers simply, her tone steady but kind.

The quiet that followed was filled only by the faint hum of a cooling fan and the whisper of petals shifting in the front room, you’re unsure how to move the conversation forward. Jane doesn’t even mind the silence as she glances around idly: neat shelves, tiny labeled pots, a radio resting by the window. Domestic and peaceful. It makes her tail go still for a moment.

You shift your weight, noting how Jane is looking around your flowers, you look around as well, then back to her as if an idea popped up. “Would you like anything here? You can consider it as a ‘thank you’ gift. It’s free, of course!”

Jane looks at you with her aqua colored eyes, “Well,” Her gaze wonders around the shop once more, pausing at different colors and shapes until she asks, almost offhandedly. “Do you have lilacs?”

Your face brightens with surprise. “Every flower you like, we have it here.” You say with a chuckle. “Do you want it potted or as a bouquet?” Jane matches your smile and nods, “Potted would be good.”

“Then follow me.” You reply, motioning toward the back where the rows of lilacs wait in soft lavender hues. As you walk, Jane’s tail sways lazily behind her, brushing the flowers and leaves. The air grows sweeter the deeper they go, filled with that delicate floral scent that clings to the skin and refuses to let go.

She pauses by the lilac display. The flowers are small and fragile, clustered together in quiet harmony. For a woman who lives in the dark, it seems an odd choice but her expression softens as she leans closer, brushing a finger just above the petals without touching them. “You like them?” You ask, watching her curiously.

“Yes.” Jane glances over her shoulder, her usual smirk tempered by something softer, more wistful. “I like any flowers.” she murmurs. There’s silence again but this time it’s gentle and lingering. She straightens and turns back toward them, her voice light once more. “How much do I owe you for this one?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing! It’s a gift, remember?” Jane tilts her head, amused. “You sure? You might regret saying that.” “Not at all.” You laugh, shaking your head. “You helped me when I needed it. That’s enough.”

She studies you for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. There’s this mixed feeling of fondness and fascination hiding behind her chest. She waves it off for now, planning to search the meaning once she leaves. Jane picks up the small pot of lilacs, holding it carefully in both hands. “Then I’ll take good care of it.” she says, voice low but sincere.

With a brief goodbye to the stranger, she leaves the shop, the sun finally sinks below the horizon, and the lights of Lumina Square bathe her in a soft glow. The emotions she felt earlier… perhaps she should visit again.

The lilacs sway gently with her every step, their faint scent following her down the quiet street. Somehow, something delicate and kind can still find its way to her hands.

It had been a few weeks since Jane first walked into your flower shop that evening with the runaway pot, and somehow, she had made herself a quiet fixture in your life ever since. Every day, without fail, she appeared around closing hours, always with that same confident stride and a new gift in hand. Sometimes it was a box of premium chocolates imported from who knows where. Other times, a heavy book about flowers, or imported teas that smelled earthy.

You’d tried to protest once. Twice. But every time, she only waved it off with an amused flick of her tail or a lazy smirk that told you it was pointless. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder, did she ever check the prices on these things? Each one looked expensive, almost unnecessarily so. It left you wondering how much she even made at her ‘secret’ job, though you’d long realized Jane was the kind of woman who didn’t measure affection in practicality.

The little bell above your shop door jingled, pulling you out of your thoughts. You straightened instinctively, brushing stray soil off your hands before glancing toward the entrance. “Good Evening.” Jane says smoothly, already half way to you. She carries a paper bag in her hand and you already know who it’s for. “You really should stop spending your money on me.” you sigh, even though the corner of your mouth betrays a smile.

Jane’s left ear flicks, a habit you’ve noticed she does whenever she hears your voice. The gesture feels unconsciously tender, as if her body reacts before her mind can. “Do you hate me that much?” she teases, a faux pout plastered on her lips as she places the paper bag on the counter. You roll your eyes, the movement exaggerated enough to make her chuckle. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Her chuckle is low and musical, brushing the edges of the air like smoke. She leaned a little on the counter, studying you through half lidded eyes. “Are you closing early?”

“Yeah.” you say, glancing down at your wristwatch. “There haven’t been many customers today. Why?” “Let’s get dinner,” she says without hesitation. “My treat.”

You blink at her, momentarily thrown off by the casual invitation. “If I didn’t know any better,” you start, feigning suspicion, “I’d say you’re asking me out.” Something flickers across her face, her smile twitches, her tail pausing mid sway. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by that same nonchalant smirk.

“You’re free to interpret it however you like.” she simply says. Oblivious to the storm beneath her calm, you laugh softly and shrug. “Then I guess I’ll go with you.”

That small smile you give her makes something in Jane’s chest clench. You don’t notice the subtle shift in her posture, the way her shoulders seem to ease, or how her eyes linger a heartbeat too long on your face. She watches as you turn off the shop lights one by one, slip your coat over your shoulders, and carefully lift the paper bag from the counter.

By the time you reach the door, she’s already waiting, tail swaying lazily, her silhouette haloed by the flickering neon outside. The night air is cool, fresh from a recent drizzle. The smell of damp earth mingles with the faint perfume of flowers still clinging to your clothes. The two of you walk side by side beneath the soft hum of Lumina Square’s evening lights, neither speaking much but neither needing to.

The ramen shop you end up in is tucked away at the corner of a narrow street, the kind of place with fogged windows and heat that seeps straight into your bones. The owner greets you both with a nod and quickly ushers you to a booth. Jane takes the seat across from you, resting her chin in her palm, eyes following every movement you make as you reach into the bag she brought.

Inside, you find a set of florist knife, beautifully crafted, its handle carved from dark polished wood, the blades curved elegantly with razor precision. “Jane,” you breathe, a mixture of disbelief and amusement coloring your tone. “There’s… these are too many! You could’ve just given me one.” You counted silently, there were atleast a dozen of them. No wonder it was a bit heavy. She shrugs, the motion so casual it borders on careless. “So you don’t run out.”

You laugh softly, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t think anyone can run out of knives.”

“Then keep it.”

“Already planning to.” You were about to say more but stop yourself, realizing you haven’t spoken your gratitude yet. “Thank you, Jane.” She smiles, her gaze drifts to the side, to the condensation rolling down her untouched glass of water. “You don’t have to.”

You look up at her, half tempted to argue but it’s the same as always with her, always waving it off. Then you see something different in her gaze. The usual sharpness in her eyes is still there, yes, but underneath it lies a warmth that’s hard to ignore. A tenderness that she doesn’t bother hiding.

You don’t realize it, but Jane watches you in quiet fascination, the way your face lights up when you laugh, the way you speak with your hands when explaining something trivial. You don’t know that she memorizes every detail: your voice, your scent, the rhythm of your breathing.

Because Jane Doe, who lives in shadows and survives by instinct, has found something entirely new in you. And she knows it without denial, without shame. She is in love with you without hesitation. Her way of showing it may be strange: through gifts too expensive, through teasing remarks and lingering glances. But they are real, and they are hers.

As you sit across from her in that quiet ramen shop, your laughter mingling with the warmth of the night, Jane finds herself thinking that this, this small, unremarkable moment is something she would fight a thousand missions for. And though she doesn’t say it aloud, her heart knows the truth. You’ve already become her peace in a world that’s never known gentleness.

Months has passed since then. Now, her visits have become more natural as the dawn, a rhythm that neither of you question: Morning dew on petals, the first hum of the neon signs outside, the door chime announcing her arrival. Every time, you’re there behind the counter, soft smile waiting for her, and Jane’s mind, that steady and controlled thing she’s trained to keep in check, falters just a little more.

She tells herself that she only visits because the company helps her think, because your tea always tastes better than hers, because you always know when to speak and when to stay silent. The heart of a human or a thiren, she realizes, is fragile all the same. Once it’s touched by warmth, it begins to ache. And in Jane’s case, it aches for you.

Each day she spends near you makes it worse. She tells herself it’s nothing. But nothing shouldn’t ache this much. It grows quietly, insistently, until it becomes unbearable. Every laugh, every fleeting touch of your hand when you pass her a flowerpot, every innocent glance in her direction feels like a hook pulling her deeper. She doesn’t know when it stopped being about comfort and started becoming something else, but now it’s too late to untangle the two.

Later on a saturday evening, the sky burns with fading amber. The shop smells of earth and fresh floral, the faint traces of rain still clinging to the pavement outside. You’re humming to yourself as you tidy up. Cutting stems, putting new flowers into vases, flipping the sign to closed. The air is peaceful, just like how it usually is. You now stand behind the counter, letting yourself relax for just a moment.

You don’t hear the door open. You only realize you’re not alone when you feel arms slip around your waist, firm but careful. Something hard and cool winds around your leg. You inhale sharply, startled. “Jane?” you whisper, looking down to look at the arms wrapping around you before turning in her hold. “Is something wrong?”

She doesn’t answer right away. You can feel her breathing against your shoulder, slow but uneven. When you finally look up at her, her eyes are darker than usual, pupils dilated under the dim light. “Jane?” you try again, softer this time.

Her thumb moves along the hem of your shirt like she’s trying to memorize the feel of you through fabric. Her tail tightens even more, making your balance waver. Instinctively, a tiny sound escapes you. half sigh, half plea. You press your palms against the table behind you for support, the wood cold under your hands. Your heart begins to pound, its rhythm so loud it drowns out the ticking of the clock on the wall. The heat crawling up your neck only worsens when she moves her head closer, her breath brushing your cheek.

Her face tilts toward yours, close enough that you can see the lipstick on her lips, close enough that her perfume lingers heavy in the air between you. Her expression is unreadable, making you confused, but you part your lips and shut your eyes tightly. Anticipating the one thing you unconsciously want.

But it never comes. Instead, Jane stops just short, her gaze flickering between your lips and your face. She studies you, how your lashes tremble, how your fingers clutch the table’s edge, how you look utterly defenseless before her. It should be easy to give in, to take what she wants but the thought of crossing that invisible line, of dragging you into the same hesitation that’s eating her alive, feels too cruel. Even more so when you haven’t even understood the feelings stirred within yourself yet.

So, she leans in just enough to let her lips brush your cheek. A faint, deliberate press of warmth that lingers longer than it should. “Goodnight.” she whispers, the word a thread of smoke against your ear. You open your eyes, confused.

And then she pulls away. Her tail slips from your leg, her arms releasing you, and she steps back quickly, as though distance will help her regain the composure she nearly lost. Before you can say anything, she’s already halfway to the door, the sound of her boots fading with each step. You stand there, motionless, the scent of her still clinging to you, your heart refusing to calm down.

You try to finish closing the shop without thinking too much but it’s no use, this sudden ache in your chest is hurting like hell and your thoughts are all mangled up. Press a hand to the spot on your cheek where her lips touched doesn’t seem to calm these emotions down. It still tingles, you note.

That night, you can’t even sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you feel her breath ghosting across your skin again, hear the low murmur of her voice, see the way her eyes had softened when she looked at you. ‘Goodnight’ she says, but you don’t have good night.

You yearned for her in ways you didn’t dare to name. The ache had woven itself into the fabric of your days: in the quiet smiles Jane left behind after a sly remark, in the brush of her hand when she passed you something, in the sound of her voice leaning too close to your ear just to watch you flinch.

What should have been fleeting gestures, small threads of familiarity, had become something more to you. They printed themselves onto your heart, left imprints on your chest you carried home long after she was gone. The weight of it sometimes made you laugh bitterly to yourself. Surely you were losing your mind, surely you were already halfway gone to fall for someone like her.

And Jane knew. Of course she did, nothing escaped her notice. She read people the way others read books, eyes sharp enough to cut through pretense, smirk sharp enough to make you feel seen even when you tried to hide.

She should have left it there. She should have kept you at arm’s length, a puzzle to solve and discard once the pieces were known. That would have been the smart thing, the safer thing. She told herself that more times than she could count. But each time, her own steps betrayed her, pulling her closer instead of pushing you away.

It was like finding a stray dog in the street, hungry and lost. She could have turned her back, walked away, convinced herself it wasn’t her problem. Yet some twisted part of her couldn’t help but whistle, couldn’t help but coax it forward, couldn’t help but offer scraps of warmth until it followed her home.

That was what you were to her. Something she shouldn’t keep, something she shouldn’t feed, and yet… she had already opened the door.

There were nights she thought about stopping. She’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, tail curling to her leg as she told herself she should cut the thread now, before it tied itself any tighter around her throat. Before you slipped into the marrow of her bones, before she forgot how to live without you haunting the edges of her days.

But then the next evening would come, and you’d greet her with that tired smile, one so achingly sincere it cracked through her practiced detachment. You’d trade banter, sharp enough to draw sparks, but beneath it there was warmth… warmth she hadn’t realized she craved until it was too late.

And so she stayed. Again and again, she stayed.

By your side, in the quiet, in the laughter, in the small silences that settled comfortably between you. She told herself she was only waiting for the right moment to let go, but with every glance, every smile, every brush of your hand against hers, the idea of letting go became harder to believe.

Somewhere in her heart, where mischief usually reigned, a fragile hope began to bloom. A dangerous, fragile hope.

She knew better than to wish for forever. And yet, when you looked at her with those gentle eyes, Jane found herself wishing all the same.

“You don’t hate me.”

Himeko’s voice is breathless, the words come out between gasps, tangled in the heat of your mouths and the press of her body beneath yours. It isn’t a question, not really. It’s something fragile that slips out before she can stop it, carried on the trembling edge of her exhale. Her lipstick is smudged, a streak of crimson fading against the corner of her mouth, and her hair fans across the pillow like wildfire.

She’s still warm. Still looking at you with those golden eyes, steady and bright even as her chest heaves, even as your lips are swollen from the way they’ve clashed again and again like you’re trying to consume each other. You can taste her on your tongue: Her wine, her sighs and the faint bitterness of something that isn’t quite forgiveness but something close.

Your teeth find her throat. The skin there is hot, delicate, flushed with blood that thrums to your pulse. You bite down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make her arch, enough to feel the tremor in her voice when she breathes your name.

“I still do.” you growl against her skin. The words come out muffled, roughened by the heat of her throat and the sweet, almost sickening scent of her perfume that clings to your mouth like smoke. It fills your lungs, coats your thoughts. You don’t know whether you’re choking on her or on yourself.

Himeko doesn’t pull away. Her fingers slide into your hair, her nails grazing your scalp in something dangerously close to affection. She could shove you off but instead, she holds you there, her touch firm and steady. Her breath catches, and for a moment she closes her eyes as though savoring the pain.

“From the heavens above,” you murmur, each word trembling with the effort to hold yourself together. “to the depths and corners of hell…” Your lips trail lower, to the place where her pulse beats strong beneath her skin. “I will always hate you.”

She exhales softly, as if she’s been waiting years to finally hear something that sounds like truth. The sound is almost a sigh of relief, like she’s been holding her breath through every silence between you, through every glance that lingered too long.

“I do wonder why,” she whispers, almost to herself. The faintest curve of a smile plays at her lips, shaky but real. “why it feels so much like something else.”

Her voice cuts through you. You wish she’d stop, wish she’d cry, yell, anything other than speak like she understands you. Damn her for reading the tremor in your hands, for knowing the difference between hate and longing, for catching the way your voice cracked on still.

She’s too kind. Even now, when you want her to hate you back, to spit the same venom you give her, she just looks at you with the same warm gaze.

You want to ruin her. You want to mark that gentleness, to carve your confusion into her skin until she can’t smile at you like that anymore. You want her to feel the chaos she stirs in you. Your nails drag faintly down her side, leaving red crescents that fade too quickly, not enough to satisfy the ache in your chest.

But she doesn’t resist. She takes it, absorbs it like sunlight through glass, until every touch feels like it’s melting into her, like she’s turning every ounce of anger into warmth.

You kiss her again. Harsher, messier. It’s a collision, all breath and teeth and desperation. Her head tilts to meet you, and her hand grips your jaw, anchoring you there, grounding you when you wish she wouldn’t. It feels like drowning and breathing at once.

You tell yourself it’s punishment, that if you kiss her hard enough, deep enough, maybe you can convince yourself it’s still hate. But it’s everything you’ve been running from: the hunger, the ache, the terrifying tenderness that crawls beneath your skin every time she looks at you like this.

if it were love, you would’ve been gentle. You would’ve kissed her softly. But you’re not ready for that.