Sigh now I gotta b the first ask... Ok you understand the desperation.
Abandoned vessel reader x Kris
Where reader was once under similar circumstances but one day woke up in control. Maybe they bond a bit
Reader can be feminine or gender neutral..
Maybe (if you want) (this is my head canon) reader's "guardian" is sans
So they tell stupid puns to flirt with Kris
Name: A Life Beyond the Vessel - Part 1 - 7/14 Chapters (Full-fic, 14 chapters)
Word Count: 60,658 Words
Fandom: Deltarune
Pairing: NB!Reader x Kris Dreemurr
Next Part: Click here for the next section!
Masterlist: The Apple Shop Masterlist
Hiiiii, thank you for da request!! I actually had a similiar fanfic idea before this request was written, so i figured id change a few things to better suit the request itself. The fic itself is a fairly simple/wholesome slice of life; it isn't extremely canon, with only some things being kept canon here and there. Also, just so people aren't confused, you the reader, were originally a soul in a previous Kris, not the Kris in this fanfic, but in a different universe, au, whatever you want to call it, hence why Kris in this fic is sometimes confused by things and why the reader remembers some things of Kris's life. So OKAY, basically what I am trying to say is YOU CONTROLLED A DIFFERENT KRIS.
WARNING!!!: Also, there is smut, I will clearly label it, if you don't want to read it then skip it. Just for the purposes of making the smut writing easier, Kris is AMAB but still NB, and the reader is AFAB but NB as well.
Also, enjoy this Kris uniform design as a small bonus :3
Chapter 1: Choose Your Vessel
I remember waking up before I remember anything else, although even that memory feels less like opening my eyes after sleep and more like becoming aware that I possess eyes at all.
There is no ceiling above me, no bedroom surrounding me and no familiar voice calling my name from somewhere nearby. There is only darkness, dense and endless, pressing against me from every direction without carrying any weight, warmth or recognisable shape.
I lie perfectly still against a surface I cannot see and wait for something to happen, because waiting is the only action that feels natural to me, even though I cannot remember what I am waiting for or who taught me that I should remain motionless until they return.
Nothing happens, and the silence frightens me more than the darkness ever could. My arms rest neatly beside my body, my legs extend straight beneath me and my head faces upward as though somebody arranged every part of me with deliberate care before deciding they no longer needed what they had made.
I can feel the shape of myself without understanding what any of it means, and when I think of each part, the words arrive as though someone placed them inside me long ago: head, torso, arms, hands, legs. The knowledge feels borrowed rather than learned, and I cannot remember ever seeing another body against which I might compare my own.
Whilest I continue to wait, something faint begins moving through the emptiness behind my thoughts. It is not a complete memory, because the images refuse to remain still long enough for me to understand them, but I remember a voice speaking from somewhere beyond the darkness. The first voice asks me questions in a tone that is formal, patient and strangely interested, as though the speaker is examining something they have only recently learned how to create.
I remember the voice asking someone or something a set of questions and being asked to select a HEAD, then a TORSO, then a pair of LEGS, although I cannot remember whether I was the person making those decisions or the thing being assembled by them.
More questions follow in broken pieces. The first voice asks about my favourite food, my favourite colour, being asked to choose a gift for the creation, and how they felt about the creation. Each question is followed by the sensation of an answer being chosen, but the choices do not feel like memories of things I have experienced. They feel like labels pressed onto an empty container, each one intended to describe a person who does not exist yet.
When the questions finally stop, the first voice tells the unseen chooser, “EXCELLENT. TRULY EXCELLENT," and the approval in its tone causes relief to flood through me so suddenly that I almost mistake it for happiness.
I do not know why being called excellent matters when I have never been called anything else, but some part of me understands that I have completed whatever purpose was expected of me. I wait for the voice to tell me what happens next, certain that I am finally about to be given the reason I was assembled.
A voice answers again, and although I can no longer remember its exact words, I remember how sharply it cuts across the first. The speaker, rejecting the creation or me, I remember them saying something along the lines of No □︎■︎♏︎ ♍︎♋︎■︎ choose ⬥︎♒︎□︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎⍓︎ are in this world. ✡︎□︎◆︎❒︎ name ♓︎⬧︎... I think from memory, it was more like the choices that were made suggest that nobody can choose who they are in this world.
The sentence is followed by the sensation of falling away from something I cannot see, and the memory ends with the certainty that I have been discarded before I was ever allowed to begin.
The darkness returns completely, leaving me with nothing but the feeling of being set aside. I continue waiting because I assume the person who created or manufactured me will eventually come back, and I imagine that perhaps they only left because something went wrong.
I wait for them to tell me to sit up, to stand, to move my hand or to become whatever they intended me to be, but no command reaches me and no presence returns to claim the body that was prepared for them.
Eventually, I become aware that I want to turn my head.
The desire is so small and unfamiliar that I nearly ignore it, because it does not sound like either of the voices I remember, and it does not arrive with instructions explaining what should happen afterward.
It simply exists somewhere inside me, fragile but persistent, and after waiting for permission that never comes, I allow the muscles in my neck to move. My head turns slowly to the left, stiff with disuse, and I remain frozen afterward because I expect someone to correct me for acting without being told.
Nothing punishes me, and nobody tells me to stop.
I turn my head to the right, then lift one hand until I can barely distinguish its outline against the darkness. The fingers respond when I think about moving them, opening and closing with an awkwardness that feels less like learning and more like remembering something the body already knows.
I raise the other hand, bend one knee and finally force myself upright, each movement frightening me because every choice belongs entirely to me and I have no idea what I am supposed to do with that freedom.
Once I am standing, I take a cautious step forward. There is no visible floor beneath me and no destination waiting ahead, but the movement carries me somewhere anyway. I take another step, then several more, following an instinct I cannot explain until the darkness abruptly tears open around me and cold morning air strikes my face.
I stumble onto wet grass beside a narrow road and fall heavily onto my hands and knees. The sky above me is grey, with pale morning light spreading behind a row of trees while mist clings to the ground and gathers in droplets across my clothes.
My chest rises and falls with breaths that feel painfully sharp after the stillness of the place I left behind, and for several minutes I remain crouched there, staring at the mud beneath my palms because the world contains more detail than my mind knows how to process.
There is colour everywhere, even beneath the dull light. The grass is dark green, the earth is brown and the sky carries shades of silver that change whenever the clouds shift. Insects move between the blades near my fingers, birds call from somewhere inside the trees and a distant engine hums along a road I cannot yet see. Each sound startles me because I have no memories with which to measure it, yet something buried beneath the confusion insists that I have heard a world like this before.
I push myself upright and begin walking without knowing where I am going. My legs feel weak beneath me, and I repeatedly stop whenever the road divides because choosing one direction over another fills me with unreasonable panic.
Each path seems to demand an answer I have not been given, so I stand between them until discomfort eventually forces me to move. I choose whichever road feels slightly more familiar, although I do not understand why anything in this place should feel familiar when I cannot remember ever being here.
The town appears gradually beyond the trees, beginning with rooftops and telephone lines before the road widens into a quiet street lined with small buildings. Most of the windows are still dark, although lights glow from one store near the corner, where a handwritten sign hangs crookedly above the entrance. I stop on the opposite side of the road and stare at the building because something about it feels ordinary enough to be safe.
A short skeleton in a blue jacket is sweeping the pavement outside.
He notices me almost immediately, although he does not call out or approach. The skeleton simply rests both hands over the top of the broom and watches me with an expression I cannot read, his permanent grin somehow appearing neither welcoming nor threatening. I remain on the other side of the road, wet, muddy and uncertain, while he waits with the patience of someone who has already decided not to frighten me.
After several seconds, the skeleton says, “morning,” in a casual voice, as though finding a stranger standing motionless across from his store is an entirely normal part of opening the shop.
I try to answer, but the sound catches painfully in my throat. I cannot remember whether I have ever spoken before, and the realisation leaves me staring at him with my mouth partly open while no words emerge.
The skeleton tilts his head before asking, “rough night?”
I do not understand the question well enough to answer it, so I look down at the mud covering my hands and clothes. The sight appears to answer for me, because the skeleton sets the broom against the wall and slides both hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“yeah,” the skeleton says, glancing briefly toward the grey sky. “looks like it.”
He crosses the street slowly and stops several steps away, leaving enough distance that I do not feel trapped. Up close, he is shorter than I expected, although the shadows inside his eye sockets make him seem older and more observant than his relaxed posture suggests.
His gaze moves over my clothes, my bare hands and the confusion I am apparently failing to hide, but he does not ask why I am there or demand an explanation I would be incapable of providing.
Instead, the skeleton asks, “you got a name?”
The question reaches into the empty space where an answer should be. I remember being asked to name something in the darkness, but the memory collapses before I can recover the word, leaving only a vague sensation of letters arranged by someone else. I attempt to speak again and manage a weak sound, but nothing resembling a name follows it.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer, and the voice that emerges is quiet, uneven and unfamiliar enough that I briefly wonder whether another person spoke from somewhere behind me.
The skeleton looks at me for a long moment without laughing or appearing surprised. “huh,” he says, nodding slowly as though my answer is unusual but not impossible. “that’s inconvenient.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply automatically, although I do not understand why I feel responsible for failing to provide information I do not possess.
“didn’t say it was your fault,” the skeleton tells me, and his tone remains easy even as his attention sharpens. “you know where you live?”
I search my mind for a house, a room or even another person waiting for me, but every attempt leads back to the same endless darkness. “No,” I answer, lowering my gaze toward the wet pavement. “I don’t think I live anywhere.”
The skeleton remains quiet, and for several seconds I expect him to tell me to leave. Instead, he turns toward the grocery store and gestures for me to follow.
“well,” the skeleton says, beginning to cross the street again, “can’t have you standing out here all morning. customers might think you’re part of the display.”
I stay where I am, uncertain whether his words are an invitation or another instruction I am expected to obey. The skeleton notices after several steps and looks back at me.
“you can come inside,” he clarifies. “if you want.”
The final three words catch my attention more strongly than the invitation itself. He has not ordered me to follow, and he has not chosen on my behalf. He has given me something that belongs to me alone, even if the decision is painfully small.
I look toward the store, then toward the empty road behind me. The darkness is gone, but the feeling of waiting remains, lingering inside my body as though I might still hear a voice telling me which direction to choose.
“I want to,” I tell him, testing the words carefully.
The skeleton’s grin does not change, but something gentler enters his expression as he holds the door open. “then c’mon in, kid,” he says. “you look like you could use a break-fast, because you know, butter late than never.”
I stare at him, unsure whether I have misunderstood the sentence.
The skeleton waits several seconds before adding, “that was a food pun.”
“I don’t understand it,” I admit.
“you will,” the skeleton assures me as I step past him into the warmth of the store. “give it time.”
A few weeks pass before the grocery store begins to feel less like the first place I entered and more like somewhere I belong. I learn that the skeleton’s name is Sans, although it takes me several days to understand why he laughs when I tell him that his name sounds incomplete.
He responds by telling me that he has always been fairly comfortable without a serif, then spends nearly ten minutes explaining typography while I sit at the small kitchen table above the store and attempt to understand why removing tiny lines from letters is supposed to be funny. By the end of the explanation, I still do not understand the joke, but I recognise the small pause Sans leaves before delivering the final word, as though he is allowing me time to prepare for something intentionally terrible.
Sans never formally asks me to stay with him, and I never formally ask whether I am allowed. The arrangement simply grows around us through a collection of small decisions that do not feel significant until I look back on them. On the first morning, he gives me a towel, a set of clothes that are slightly too large and a plate of eggs shaped vaguely like a smiling face.
On the second, he shows me the narrow room above the store where cardboard boxes have been pushed against one wall to make space for a mattress. On the third, I wake to find a lamp on the bedside table and several folded blankets at the foot of the bed, although Sans insists they must have wandered upstairs by themselves when I attempt to thank him.
I continue asking whether I am allowed to use things long after Sans has told me I no longer need permission. I ask before opening the refrigerator, before sitting on the couch and before turning on the television, and each question makes his permanent grin appear somehow more tired. One evening, after I stand in the kitchen doorway and ask whether I may have a glass of water, Sans lowers the newspaper he has been pretending to read and looks at me for several quiet seconds.
“kid,” Sans says, folding the paper across his lap, “you live here.”
“I know,” I reply, although the answer comes hesitantly because knowing something and believing it are not always the same.
Sans gestures toward the cupboard beside the sink before telling me, “that means the glasses are yours too. probably not legally, because i paid for ‘em, but emotionally, you’ve got partial custody.”
I look toward the cupboard and then back toward Sans before asking, “What if I use the wrong one?”
Sans glances at the mismatched collection of mugs and glasses behind the cabinet door, none of which appear to belong to the same set. “then the glass police come,” Sans answers solemnly. “real serious guys. transparent motives.”
I stare at him until his grin widens, and after several seconds I realise he has made another joke. The understanding arrives slowly, but when it does, a small laugh escapes me before I can decide whether the sound is appropriate. Sans does not comment on it, although he lifts the newspaper again with an expression that seems quietly satisfied.
Learning to laugh is easier than learning to choose. Sans discovers this whenever he asks what I would like to eat, wear or do with my time, because each question leaves me staring at the available options as though one of them will reveal itself as correct.
He starts offering absurd alternatives whenever I freeze, asking whether I would prefer toast or a decorative candle for breakfast, whether I want to watch television or stare thoughtfully at the wall, and whether I would rather wear the blue jumper or challenge the concept of clothing entirely.
The ridiculous choices make the real ones feel smaller, and eventually I begin answering before the silence becomes uncomfortable.
Names are more difficult, because unlike choosing what I want for breakfast or deciding which clothes feel comfortable, a name seems far too important to select through trial and error. Sans asks about mine only once during the first week, and when I tell him that I cannot remember it, he does not push me for an answer I do not possess. Instead, he begins offering different names whenever he speaks to me, treating each possibility as something I can test for a little while rather than a permanent decision that must define me immediately.
For several days, Sans calls me Pat because, according to him, the name works for almost anyone and also describes what people do to dogs. I stop responding to it after he introduces me to a customer as Pat Down, causing the customer to spend the remainder of the transaction looking between us with visible concern. After that, Sans suggests several names that he claims are traditional where he comes from, although I become suspicious when his ideas begin including Bonejamin, Femurly and Marrowlyn.
None of the names feel entirely wrong, but they do not feel like mine either. Each one rests awkwardly against me, like an article of clothing chosen for somebody whose body resembles my own without truly belonging to me, and whenever Sans asks whether I want to keep one, I feel the same uncomfortable pressure that accompanies every choice too important to make without instructions.
The decision finally arrives while Sans is completing paperwork for what he loosely describes as “making sure nobody asks too many questions about the mysterious teenager living above a grocery store.” He sits at the kitchen table with several forms spread around him, occasionally muttering about bureaucracy while I watch from the opposite chair. Most of the questions are simple enough for him to answer, but when he reaches the empty line marked FULL NAME, his pen stops above the paper.
“still got nothing for this one,” Sans says, tapping the empty space with one bony finger. “government really loves names. makes it easier for ’em to send you letters you never asked for.”
“I could choose one of the names we tried,” I offer, although the suggestion feels more practical than sincere.
Sans glances toward the list we made several weeks earlier, which is now covered in crossed-out names and unnecessary skeleton jokes. “you could,” Sans replies as he turns the form toward me, “but you don’t have to pick one just because somebody else suggested it. name’s yours, kid. might as well be something you actually want.”
I stare at the empty line and try to ignore the familiar tension gathering inside my chest. The question feels uncomfortably similar to the ones I remember from the darkness, when unseen choices were placed before somebody and answers were selected before I understood what any of them meant. This time, however, there is no distant voice waiting to approve my decision, no collection of options appearing inside my mind and nobody prepared to discard me if I choose incorrectly.
Sans waits without rushing me, allowing the kitchen to remain quiet apart from the gentle ticking of the clock and the faint humming of the refrigerator. He does not offer another suggestion or attempt to fill the silence on my behalf, and I gradually realise that he intends to let the decision belong entirely to me, no matter how long it takes.
“My name...” I begin, although the words fade as soon as they leave my mouth.
Sans looks up from the form but does not interrupt me.
I lower my gaze toward my hands, turning the possibilities over inside my mind until one of them begins to feel less like something borrowed and more like something I could grow into.
It does not awaken a forgotten memory, and no mysterious voice tells me that the answer is excellent, but the absence of recognition feels strangely reassuring. Whatever name I had before, if I ever possessed one at all, was connected to a body created for someone else. This one will belong to the person sitting at the kitchen table now.
“Hm,” I murmur as I test the name silently one final time. When I lift my head again, I look directly toward Sans and tell him, “I want to be called Y/N.”
Sans repeats my chosen name carefully, giving it the same consideration he would give any other decision I made for myself. “Y/n,” Sans says before nodding with quiet approval. “yeah. think that suits you.”
“You do?” I ask, and the relief in my voice embarrasses me slightly.
“course it does,” Sans answers as he slides the form across the table and offers me his pen. “you picked it.”
I accept the pen and place its tip against the paper, although my hand trembles slightly before I begin writing. I have written words before, but I have never written something intended to represent me, and forming my chosen name across the empty line feels more intimate than I expected.
Each letter is uneven, and the final one leans slightly toward the edge of the box, but the name is unmistakably mine because I am the person who decided it should be there.
Sans leans across the table to inspect my handwriting before saying, “nice work. guess you really made a name for yourself.”
I look toward him and ask, “Was that a name pun?”
“barely,” Sans replies. “but those are usually my best ones.”
That is how I become Y/N. It is not a name recovered from the darkness or returned to me by whoever assembled my body, and nobody beyond this world selects it on my behalf. I choose it because it feels right when I say it, because it belongs only to the life I am beginning now and because writing it down proves that I can create parts of myself without needing another person to decide what they should be.
A few weeks after choosing my name, I begin noticing how much easier it is to exist when people have something to call me. Sans says Y/N casually from the other room when he needs help carrying groceries upstairs, writes it across paper bags containing food he claims he is saving for later and occasionally shouts it from behind the register when a customer asks a question he has decided is beyond his managerial responsibilities.
Every time I hear the name, there is still a small moment in which I have to remind myself that the person being addressed is me, but the hesitation becomes shorter with each passing day.
Life above the grocery store gradually begins to feel less temporary. My clothes find their way into the empty drawers Sans cleared for me, books begin collecting beside my mattress and the bathroom shelf gains a toothbrush that nobody else uses. Sans never announces that the room belongs to me, although he starts referring to it as my room so naturally that questioning him would feel unnecessary.
Whenever I ask how long I am permitted to stay, Sans tells me that rent is extremely reasonable as long as I continue tolerating his cooking, which does not answer the question but somehow reassures me anyway.
During the mornings, I help Sans prepare the store for opening. At first, my responsibilities are limited to straightening products and checking whether the shelves look untidy, but Sans gradually begins trusting me with boxes, price labels and eventually the register. He explains each task once, then wanders away before I can ask enough questions to feel prepared, leaving me to discover that I usually know what to do before I consciously understand how.
The familiarity is never complete enough to become comforting. Sometimes I reach for a particular shelf without remembering where I learnt its location, or I turn toward the stockroom before Sans tells me that something is stored there. When customers ask for products I have never seen before, the answer occasionally forms inside my mind with unsettling certainty, accompanied by a brief pressure behind my eyes and the impression of walking through a place that resembles the store without being exactly the same.
Whenever that happens, Sans watches me from wherever he is pretending not to work.
He never asks what I remember, although his jokes become louder and more frequent whenever I fall silent for too long. One afternoon, after I stand motionless in the cereal aisle with an unopened box in my hands, Sans leans around the shelf and tells me that I appear to be having a grain delay. The joke is so terrible that the memory vanishes beneath my immediate confusion, and Sans looks entirely too pleased when I groan.
By the second month, I begin making the jokes myself.
They are never particularly clever, because Sans has explained that cleverness is optional as long as the listener regrets giving me their attention. I tell customers that the frozen aisle is the coolest section of the store, announce that the bread prices are rising and inform Sans that stocking eggs is an egg-cellent use of my time. Sans responds to each attempt with exaggerated pride, which only encourages me to continue.
One evening, after I successfully operate the register through an entire rush without asking Sans for help, he places a purple apron on the counter and slides it toward me. A small handwritten badge has already been pinned to the front, my chosen name written across it in thick black marker.
“What is this?” I ask, even though the answer seems obvious.
“uniform,” Sans replies as he rests both elbows against the counter. “figured it was time you started getting paid for doing my job.”
“I thought I was already helping,” I tell him while lifting the apron carefully.
“you were,” Sans says. “that was the unpaid training period.”
“You never told me there was an unpaid training period.”
“would’ve ruined the surprise,” Sans answers.
I look down at my name on the badge, tracing one finger along the edge without touching the ink. Seeing Y/N written there produces the same quiet satisfaction I felt when I first placed it on the paperwork, although this time the name is attached to something tangible: a place where I am expected to arrive, a role I am trusted to perform and proof that Sans believes I belong here long enough to require a uniform.
“When do I start?” I ask.
“tomorrow afternoon,” Sans replies. “you’ll be working evenings with another employee, so try not to scare them away before closing.”
I pause while folding the apron over one arm. “There is another employee?”
Sans nods solemnly. “yeah. been keeping that secret for dramatic effect.”
“I have never seen them" I reply back to Sans.
“they usually work after you go upstairs,” Sans explains. “finished school a couple months ago and started picking up extra shifts while they figure out what they wanna do next.”
“What are they like?” I ask.
Sans pretends to consider the question. “quiet, helpful and taller than both of us.”
“Most people are taller than both of us,” I point out.
“exactly,” Sans replies. “makes recruitment easier.”
I wait for an actual description, but Sans only lifts a magazine from beneath the counter and begins pretending to read it. “What is their name?” I ask.
“you’ll find out tomorrow,” Sans answers.
“That seems unnecessarily mysterious.”
“gotta keep the new job exciting somehow,” Sans tells me.
The following afternoon, I arrive downstairs nearly an hour before my shift begins because I am worried that arriving at the correct time might somehow count as being late. Sans is sitting behind the counter with his feet resting on a box labelled FRAGILE, although he insists the contents became less fragile after he sat on them.
I tie the apron around my waist, adjust the badge until it sits straight and then adjust it again when I begin worrying that straight is not the same as centred. Sans watches this process for several minutes before lowering his magazine.
“kid,” Sans says, “badge isn’t gonna run away.”
“I know,” I reply while checking it one final time. “I want to look prepared.”
“you’ve been here longer than half the products,” Sans reminds me. “you’ll be fine.”
Before I can ask what I am supposed to say when the other employee arrives, the bell above the entrance rings.
A human steps through the doorway carrying a cardboard box against their chest. They appear to be around my age, perhaps eighteen or slightly older, although the tired curve of their shoulders makes them seem more accustomed to responsibility than I am. Their dark hair falls unevenly across their face, obscuring most of their eyes, while a faded green-and-yellow striped sweater shows beneath their open jacket.
They are also noticeably taller than me.
The difference becomes more apparent when they straighten near the entrance, and I immediately understand why Sans mentioned it. I have to lift my chin slightly when the stranger looks toward the counter, while they only need to lower their gaze to see me standing beside Sans in my oversized apron.
The observation should be ordinary enough to calm me, but the moment their visible eye settles on my face, something cold moves through my chest.
The store blurs around me.
For a few seconds, I remember falling leaves beneath feet that do not feel like mine. I remember a pale hand reaching toward a door, although I cannot tell whether I am watching the hand or moving it. Somewhere beneath the images, a red heart pulses inside a darkness that resembles the place where I woke, and the sensation of recognising the stranger becomes so powerful that my fingers tighten around the counter.
An instinctive thought passes through my mind before I can stop it.
The grocery store returns abruptly. Sans remains beside me, watching with the deliberate casualness he adopts whenever he is paying close attention, while the unfamiliar human has stopped just inside the doorway.
Their shoulders have become tense beneath their jacket, and although most of their expression remains hidden, something in the way they stare at me suggests that the recognition may not belong entirely to me.
Sans closes his magazine and gestures toward the stranger. “Kris, meet Y/n,” Sans says, indicating me before looking toward them. “Y/n, this is Kris. you’ll be working together, assuming neither of you quits during the introduction.”
Hearing it sends another brief pressure through my head, but the memory refuses to return. The name feels less like new information and more like something I misplaced long ago, although I cannot understand how I could remember a person I have never met.
Kris adjusts the cardboard box against their chest before looking toward Sans. “You said the new employee was starting next week,” Kris says, their voice quieter and rougher than I expected.
“said they were starting soon,” Sans replies. “today’s pretty soon compared to next year.”
“You wrote next week on the schedule,” Kris tells him.
“good thing one of us checks it,” Sans answers.
Kris stares at Sans for several seconds before returning their attention to me. Up close, the height difference feels even more unfair, especially when I realise the top of my head barely reaches their shoulder. Their gaze moves briefly toward my name badge before returning to my face.
“You’re Y/N,” Kris says, sounding as though they are testing whether the name fits me.
“Yes,” I answer, smoothing one hand unnecessarily over the front of my apron. “I chose it recently.”
Kris’s head tilts slightly, and the cardboard box shifts against their chest as their attention settles more carefully on me. “What do you mean, you chose it recently?” Kris asks.
I hesitate, realising too late that most people do not describe their names as something they selected only a few weeks ago. Kris continues watching me from beneath their hair, not openly suspicious but clearly waiting for an explanation that makes more sense than the one I have given them.
“I could not remember my original name,” I explain, rubbing my thumb along the edge of the badge. “Sans suggested several possibilities, most of which were terrible, and eventually I chose this one for myself.”
Kris glances briefly toward Sans before looking back at me. “You don’t remember your name?” they ask.
“I do not remember much from before Sans found me,” I admit, keeping my voice deliberately casual despite the discomfort tightening inside my chest. “I remember pieces occasionally, but none of them have been useful enough to tell me who I was.”
Kris becomes strangely still, and although most of their expression remains hidden behind their hair, the visible tension in their shoulders tells me that my answer has affected them more than I expected. Their gaze returns to my name badge, lingering on the handwritten letters before lifting to my face again.
“So you named yourself,” Kris says, their voice quieter now.
“Yes,” I reply. “I thought that would be better than letting Sans continue calling me Pat Down.”
From beside me, Sans says, “still think we gave up on that one too soon.”
“We did not,” I tell Sans firmly.
Kris’s mouth shifts slightly at the corner, but their attention remains on me as they say, “Y/N suits you.”
The simple approval catches me off guard. My fingers become still against the badge, and for a moment I cannot think of anything clever or appropriately casual to say in response.
“Thank you,” I finally reply. “I was hoping it would.”
Kris gives a small nod before adding, “I’m Kris.”
“I know,” I answer automatically.
Kris’s visible eye narrows.
“Sans just told me,” I add quickly. “I meant that I know now, not that I knew before you arrived.”
“That sounded normal,” Sans comments from beside me.
“I was not asking for feedback,” I tell him.
Kris’s mouth shifts slightly at the corner, and although the expression disappears almost immediately, I am nearly certain they were trying not to smile. The discovery makes me feel unexpectedly relieved, and I search for something else to say before the silence becomes uncomfortable.
My attention falls toward the cardboard box Kris is carrying. Several bags of flour are stacked inside, and because Sans is responsible for most of my conversational education, the first thought that enters my mind is unfortunately a pun.
“I suppose we will be working the same shifts,” I say as I glance from Kris to the flour. “Hopefully we can rise to the occasion.”
Kris follows my gaze toward the box before looking back down at me. Their expression becomes so blank that I cannot tell whether the joke has passed completely over their head or struck them directly and caused permanent damage.
Sans makes a quiet, approving sound.
“That was a bread joke,” I explain to Kris, immediately making the situation worse. “I realise flour has not become bread yet, so technically it is a future bread joke.”
Kris looks toward Sans. “Did you teach them to do this?” Kris asks.
“only gave ‘em the tools,” Sans replies. “y/n built the problem themselves.”
“I panicked,” I admit, lowering my voice while keeping my eyes on the flour. “I am better at speaking to people when they are not present.”
“That sounds useful,” Kris says.
“It has limited practical application,” I reply.
The faint almost-smile returns to Kris’s mouth, remaining long enough that I know I did not imagine it. Sans appears to notice as well, because he points toward the baking aisle with one bony hand. “kris can show you the ropes,” Sans tells me. “or the shelves. we don’t sell much rope.”
Kris releases a quiet sigh before turning toward the aisle. “Come on,” they say as they look back over one shoulder. “I’ll show you where everything goes.”
I step out from behind the counter and follow them, quickly discovering that matching Kris’s stride requires significantly more effort than I expected. Their legs are long enough that what appears to be a normal walking pace for them forces me into an awkward half-jog, and after several steps, I begin considering whether asking them to slow down would be more embarrassing than continuing to struggle.
Kris notices before I decide.
Their pace changes subtly, shortening until I can walk comfortably beside them. They do not comment on the adjustment, and for several seconds I am unsure whether thanking them would draw unnecessary attention to it.
“Thank you,” I say eventually.
Kris glances down at me. “For what?”
“You slowed down,” I explain.
“You have short legs,” Kris replies.
I stare up at them in mild offence. “I was going to call that considerate, but apparently it was height-based criticism.”
“It can be both,” Kris says.
“That is cruel,” I tell them as we enter the baking aisle. “We have been coworkers for less than five minutes.”
Kris crouches beside the shelf and places the box on the floor. “You made a flour pun during the introduction,” they remind me.
“I was trying to be friendly.”
“You were trying to make me regret coming to work.”
“Sans says those are often the same thing,” I explain.
Kris looks toward me from beneath their hair, and this time the smile reaches their face clearly enough that I cannot mistake it for anything else.
For reasons I cannot understand, I feel as though I have seen that smile before.
Chapter 4: Understanding Them
A few more months pass, and knowing Kris becomes less like learning about a coworker and more like collecting pieces of a person I somehow recognise before those pieces are given to me. The details arrive gradually, usually during slow evening shifts when there are no customers in the store and Sans has disappeared into the back room under the questionable claim that he is “checking inventory.” Kris never sits me down and explains their life through one complete conversation, because direct explanations do not seem to come naturally to them. Instead, they mention things casually while stocking shelves, carrying boxes or waiting beside me at the register, and I begin fitting each new fact into the growing shape of them.
I learn that Kris graduated from Hometown’s school shortly before I started working at the store, although they continue referring to it simply as “school” in the same resigned tone someone might use when describing a recurring illness. Kris tells me that their mother, Toriel, teaches there and runs the choir classes, which explains why they know the lyrics to several songs they insist they dislike. I also learn that Toriel still messages Kris reminders to eat lunch even though they are no longer one of her students, and that she frequently appears at the store near closing with baked goods she claims were left over, despite always bringing exactly enough for Kris, Sans and me.
The first time Toriel visits while I am working, she stands near the counter with a covered dish held carefully between both hands and looks between Kris and me with such immediate warmth that I briefly wonder whether she already knows who I am. Kris introduces us before I can ask, although the way their shoulders rise suggests that they are preparing for something embarrassing.
“Mom, this is Y/N,” Kris says as they nod toward me, keeping one hand on the box they are unpacking. “They work the evening shifts with me.”
“Oh, of course,” Toriel replies as her expression brightens and she places the dish on the counter. “Kris has mentioned you several times.”
Kris becomes completely still beside the shelf, while I turn toward them before I can stop myself. “You talk about me?” I ask, trying to sound casually interested rather than embarrassingly pleased.
“Sometimes,” Kris answers, although they keep their attention fixed on the box with suspicious intensity.
Toriel smiles as she begins removing the covering from the dish. “Kris told me that Sans has been teaching you his jokes,” Toriel explains, revealing a tray of cinnamon pastries. “I am very sorry.”
“I have been told that they build character,” I reply, glancing toward the pastries before looking back at Toriel.
“They build something,” Kris mutters from beside the shelf.
Toriel laughs softly before telling me, “You are welcome to visit our home whenever you like, Y/N. Kris rarely brings friends over without several weeks of preparation, so I would be delighted to have you.”
“We are still working, Mom,” Kris interrupts, although the colour beginning to show at the tips of their ears suggests the interruption is less about professional responsibility and more about ending the conversation before Toriel reveals anything else.
Once Toriel leaves, I wait exactly ten seconds before turning toward Kris. They have begun unpacking the box again with such deliberate concentration that each item appears to require their complete mental focus.
“You have mentioned me several times,” I say as I lean one elbow against the counter, attempting to sound casual despite the light fluttering beginning inside my stomach.
“Mom asks about work,” Kris replies without looking toward me.
“And your answer is apparently my name,” I point out.
“Sometimes,” Kris says again, placing another product on the shelf.
“How many times is sometimes?” I ask, tilting my head while I continue watching them.
Kris finally looks down at me, their expression flat but not entirely convincing. “Enough for her to recognise you,” they answer.
The response sends something light and unpleasant fluttering through my stomach. For one alarming moment, I think the pastries have made me ill before remembering that I have not eaten one yet. I press a hand briefly against my abdomen and decide the sensation must be hunger, although the explanation becomes less convincing when Kris reaches across me for a price label and the same feeling returns twice as strongly.
I also learn about Asgore, Kris’s father, because his flower shop sits only a short distance down the road and Kris occasionally stops there before beginning a shift.
They speak about him with an affection complicated by discomfort, although I do not understand the history well enough to ask questions without feeling intrusive. What I do understand is that Asgore gives away more flowers than he sells, remembers the names of customers who entered his shop once several years ago and sends Kris to work carrying small bouquets that they insist were merely “extra.”
One evening, Kris arrives carrying a cluster of yellow flowers wrapped loosely in brown paper. They place them beside the register before removing their jacket, and I spend several minutes pretending not to look at them while I straighten the same display repeatedly.
“Those are nice,” I eventually say as I adjust a packet that was already perfectly straight.
“Dad gave them to me,” Kris replies, glancing briefly toward the flowers.
“Do you usually bring flowers to work?” I ask.
I wait for them to explain further, but Kris only ties their apron and begins checking the list Sans left beside the register. The flowers remain between us until the store closes, and when Kris finally picks them up, they separate one bloom from the rest before holding it toward me.
“This one was damaged,” Kris says as they offer me the flower.
I look at it carefully, although it appears perfectly intact apart from one slightly bent petal. “So you are giving it to me because it is defective?” I ask.
“You like strange things,” Kris replies, keeping their hand extended.
“That is one of the least romantic reasons anyone has ever offered me a flower,” I tell them.
Kris watches me without lowering their hand. “Are you taking it?” they ask.
“Yes,” I answer as I accept the flower carefully. “I suppose I can overlook the terrible delivery.”
Kris gives a small nod and turns away before I can study their expression. The familiar fluttering sensation immediately returns beneath my ribs, and I spend the rest of the evening attempting to determine why my face feels unusually warm and why the flower remains tucked safely behind the register rather than being thrown away with the damaged packaging.
The more I learn about Kris, the worse the physical symptoms become. Whenever the bell above the entrance rings and Kris steps through the doorway, my heart gives one sharp, unreasonable beat that makes me feel as though I have been startled.
Sometimes the sensation is followed by warmth rising through my chest, while other times my stomach twists so violently that I briefly wonder whether I am about to be sick. Kris only needs to say my name, smile at one of my terrible jokes or lean over me to reach a shelf before my body begins reacting as though I am in immediate danger.
I do not understand why this happens. The obvious conclusion is that Kris is somehow harmful to me, but that theory becomes difficult to defend when I actively look forward to seeing them. I begin listening for the bell near the beginning of every evening shift, and whenever Kris is late, the store feels strangely incomplete until they arrive.
I also find myself remembering details that should not matter, such as which drink they prefer during breaks, which side they usually stand on while stocking shelves and how their smile appears slightly crooked whenever they are trying not to laugh.
Sans notices before I say anything. He is leaning against the register one afternoon while I rearrange a display of canned soup for the third time, and although Kris has not arrived yet, I have looked toward the entrance whenever footsteps pass outside.
“Waiting for somebody?” Sans asks, turning one page of his magazine without glancing up.
“No,” I answer too quickly.
Sans hums as though he finds my response deeply convincing. “must be one exciting door,” he comments.
“I am checking whether customers are approaching,” I explain while moving another can unnecessarily.
“store’s closed for another twenty minutes,” Sans reminds me.
I look toward the sign and realise that Sans is correct. “I am preparing in advance,” I tell him, placing the can back exactly where it began.
“good plan,” Sans replies. “wouldn’t want to be caught off guard by a kris-tomer.”
I turn slowly toward him. “That was terrible,” I tell Sans.
“yeah,” Sans agrees. “but you noticed the name.”
This replaces the section beginning when Kris arrives with the drinks, while keeping the reader’s feelings private until they speak with Sans after work.
Before I can respond to Sans’s terrible joke, the bell above the entrance rings and Kris steps into the store carrying two paper cups. My heart gives such a sharp, sudden beat that the can in my hands slips against my fingers, and I barely manage to catch it before it strikes the floor. Sans’s grin appears slightly more satisfied as he watches me recover, although he returns his attention to the magazine before Kris reaches the counter.
Kris places one of the drinks beside me and tells me, “You always forget to get one before your shift.”
I stare at the can before looking up at them, and the familiar fluttering sensation immediately begins twisting through my stomach. “You brought this for me?” I ask, attempting to keep my voice steady while my body reacts as though Kris has placed something far more important than a canned drink on the counter.
“You complained last time,” Kris replies as they lift their own can toward their mouth.
“I complain about many things,” I remind them, although my fingers close carefully around the drink they brought me.
“I know,” Kris says, and the faint amusement in their voice makes the warmth inside my chest spread toward my face.
My stomach twists so violently that I briefly wonder whether I might actually be sick. I grip the edge of the counter with my free hand and lower my gaze toward the can, hoping that neither Kris nor Sans notices how suddenly uncomfortable I have become.
Kris notices immediately.
“Are you okay?” Kris asks as they lean slightly closer, their expression sharpening beneath their hair.
“Yes,” I answer too quickly, forcing my hand to release the counter. “The can nearly fell.”
Kris glances toward the completely unharmed can before looking back at me. “You look pale,” they point out.
“I am usually pale,” I reply, which is true enough to make the excuse sound almost convincing. “I think the lighting near the register makes it worse.”
Kris continues studying me for another moment, and the attention only causes my heart to beat faster. I take a hurried sip from the drink so that I have an excuse not to speak, then nearly choke when I realise Kris remembered exactly how I prefer it.
Sans lowers his magazine just enough to observe me over the top of the page. “careful, kid,” Sans says. “wouldn’t want that drink going to your head.”
“It is not going to my head,” I tell Sans, although the warmth spreading through my face makes the statement less convincing than I would like.
Kris looks between Sans and me before asking, “Did I miss something?”
“nope,” Sans answers as he raises the magazine again. “y/n’s just feeling a little stirred up.”
“I am going to begin working now,” I announce before Sans can produce anything worse.
Kris’s mouth curves faintly at the corner, and they turn toward the nearest aisle without questioning me further. I follow them after placing my can safely behind the register, although my body continues behaving strangely throughout the shift.
Every time Kris passes close enough for their sleeve to brush mine, the muscles in my stomach tighten. Whenever they say my name from the other end of an aisle, my attention snaps toward them before I have time to think, and when they reach over me to place something on a shelf I cannot access, my heart seems to forget its rhythm entirely.
Whenever Kris asks whether I am tired, I tell them that I slept poorly. When they notice me pressing one hand against my stomach, I claim that Toriel’s pastries were heavier than I expected, even though I would willingly eat several more if offered. Kris appears unconvinced, but they do not force me to explain, and I spend the remainder of the shift attempting to appear normal while becoming increasingly certain that something inside me is malfunctioning.
The strange memories remain more difficult to hide.
Later that evening, while Kris and I restock the refrigerated section, they ask whether I ever attended Hometown’s school. Their question sounds casual, although they keep their attention fixed on the milk cartons rather than looking toward me.
“I do not think so,” I answer as I arrange the bottles along the shelf. “I remember the building, though.”
Kris’s hand stops against the refrigerator. “You remember it?” they ask, turning slightly toward me.
“Pieces of it,” I explain. “I remember a classroom with windows facing the car park, a corridor near the library and a supply closet with a damaged handle.”
Kris slowly turns until they are facing me properly. Their expression is mostly hidden beneath their hair, but their stillness makes me uncomfortable enough that I continue speaking before the silence can become unbearable.
“You went there,” I tell Kris. “Your mother taught at the school, and you attended her choir classes even though you disliked performing in front of people.”
Kris’s posture changes immediately. “I never told you that,” they say.
The refrigerator hums loudly behind us while I search my memory for the conversation in which they might have mentioned it, but nothing appears. “You told me that Toriel ran the choir classes,” I reply carefully.
“I didn’t tell you I was in them,” Kris says as their gaze settles more intensely on my face.
A wave of nausea moves through my stomach, although this sensation feels colder than the nervous fluttering that accompanies Kris’s smiles. I lower the carton in my hands and attempt to understand why I am so certain of something I was never told.
“I thought you did,” I admit. “I remember you standing near the back because you did not want anyone looking at you.”
Kris remains completely still while a flash crosses my mind before I can stop it: dark hair at the edge of my vision, a warm classroom filled with voices and the sensation of selecting a place where we might remain unnoticed. For one impossible second, I am looking through Kris’s eyes at a room I have never entered.
“We hated being near the front,” I whisper.
Kris’s gaze sharpens immediately. “We?” they ask.
The word hangs between us, carrying a weight I cannot understand. I grip the edge of the shelf as the memory collapses, leaving only the faint outline of a red heart and the uncomfortable certainty that I have said something true.
“I do not know why I said that,” I admit, keeping my attention fixed on the carton in my hands because looking directly at Kris feels suddenly impossible.
“You keep doing that,” Kris tells me, their voice quieter than before.
“Saying ‘we’ when you mean me,” Kris explains. “You said it last week when we were stocking cereal, and you did it again when you knew which road I take home.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but several moments return all at once: we always put those there, we hated this aisle, we would turn left. Each phrase felt natural when I said it, although I never understood who the second person was supposed to be.
“I do not think I mean you,” I answer slowly. “At least, not exactly.”
“Then who do you mean?” Kris asks as they lower their gaze toward the milk carton in their hands.
“I wish I knew,” I reply.
Neither of us speaks for several seconds. The cold light from the refrigerator catches along the edges of Kris’s hair while their expression remains guarded, and the unease twisting inside me becomes tangled with the other strange feeling that appears whenever they stand too close. I cannot tell where the memory ends and the warmth begins, but I know that explaining either sensation would require words I do not possess.
Kris eventually turns back toward the shelves and says, “You should tell me if you remember anything else.”
“I will,” I promise, although I am not certain whether the promise is honest.
Kris glances down at me as though they recognise my hesitation, but instead of challenging it, they reach over my head and place a carton on the highest shelf with insulting ease. “You missed one,” they tell me.
“I did not miss it,” I reply. “I was refusing to acknowledge a shelf that was clearly designed to discriminate against me.”
“It’s a normal shelf,” Kris says.
“That is easy for you to say when you are built like an inconveniently quiet lamppost,” I tell them.
Kris looks down at me, and the tension in their posture loosens as a small smile appears at the corner of their mouth. “You’re just short,” they reply.
The sight of their smile sends another painful flutter through my stomach, but I force myself to return to the lower shelf before Kris can notice anything unusual. “I am appropriately sized,” I tell them. “The rest of the town is being excessive.”
Kris’s smile remains as they continue stocking, and neither of us mentions the strange memory again before closing.
By the time the last customer leaves, the fluttering has become a constant restless pressure beneath my ribs. Kris helps me count the register, carries the heavier boxes into the stockroom and waits while I struggle with the lock on the front door, even though their shift has already ended. When I finally manage to turn the key, Kris reaches over my shoulder and checks that the door is secure.
“You’re getting better at that,” Kris says.
“It only took me four attempts tonight,” I reply as I turn to face them. “Soon I may become unstoppable.”
“I’ll warn the town,” Kris says, and the faint smile accompanying the words makes my heart skip again.
Kris retrieves their jacket from behind the counter and begins walking toward the back entrance. Before leaving, they pause near the doorway and glance toward me.
“Thanks for the shift, Y/N,” Kris says. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I answer, holding myself unnaturally still so that my body cannot betray me again. “I will also see you tomorrow.”
Kris tilts their head slightly, perhaps because my response sounds more formal than intended, but they eventually say, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Kris,” I reply.
The door closes behind them, leaving the store quiet apart from the hum of the refrigerators. I remain beside the register, staring at the doorway through which Kris disappeared while my heart continues beating far too quickly for someone who is no longer present.
Sans speaks from the stockroom entrance before I realise he has returned. “you gonna keep staring at the door, or should i ask it to come back tomorrow?”
I turn toward him and find Sans leaning against the frame with both hands inside the pockets of his jacket. His permanent grin has not changed, although his expression carries the familiar watchfulness that tells me he has already noticed more than I intended.
“I think something is wrong with me,” I tell Sans.
Sans straightens slightly, and the humour in his expression becomes more subdued. “wrong how?” he asks.
I glance toward the back door again before walking to the counter and resting both hands against its edge. The symptoms sound ridiculous now that I have decided to describe them, but Sans waits without interrupting, giving me enough time to arrange the thoughts into something understandable.
“It happens most often when Kris arrives,” I explain. “My heart beats much harder than it should, even when they have not frightened me, and sometimes it feels as though it stops briefly before beginning again. My stomach twists, my face becomes warm and I occasionally feel as though I might vomit, although I never actually do.”
Sans watches me carefully before asking, “anything else?”
“I think about them when they are not here,” I continue. “I notice when they are late, and the store feels different until they arrive. I remember small things they tell me, even when those details are not useful, and when they smile at me, the symptoms become significantly worse.”
Sans’s grin widens slightly, although he manages not to laugh. “huh,” he says. “sounds like maybe you like kris.”
“Yes, I like Kris,” I reply, confused by how obvious his conclusion seems. “Kris is patient with me, brings me drinks and slows down when we walk together. They are quiet, but they are funny when they decide to be, and they gave me a flower even though they claimed it was damaged. I assume most people who know Kris like them.”
“probably,” Sans agrees. “but i’m talking about a different kind of like.”
I stare at him. “How many kinds are there?”
“more than one,” Sans answers as he moves behind the counter and sits on the stool. “you can like somebody because they’re nice to have around, or because they’re family, or because they’re your friend. then there’s the kind where your brain decides one person is suddenly the most interesting thing in every room.”
“That sounds inefficient,” I tell him.
“extremely,” Sans agrees. “people still do it.”
I lower myself onto the stool beside him while I consider his explanation. “What makes the second kind different?” I ask.
Sans rests both arms against the counter before answering. “you wanna be close to them even when there’s no reason to be. you care a little too much about what they think of you, and normal stuff starts feeling important because they’re the one doing it. they say your name, bring you a drink or give you a flower, and suddenly your whole body acts like something huge happened.”
I look down at my hands as I remember Kris placing the drink can beside me and saying that I always forget to buy one. The gesture was small enough that another person might have forgotten it before the shift ended, but I can still remember the exact position of Kris’s fingers against the lid and the quiet sound of their voice.
“Is that why I feel sick?” I ask.
“could be butterflies,” Sans explains. “not real ones, unless this town’s gotten weirder than usual. just what people call that nervous feeling when they’re attracted to somebody.”
I turn the unfamiliar word over in my mind. “Attracted,” I repeat. “Does that mean I think Kris looks nice?”
“that can be part of it,” Sans replies. “doesn’t have to be the whole thing.”
“Kris does look nice,” I admit. “Their hair is always untidy, and their sweater is old, but I like looking at them. Sometimes I look for longer than I intended, especially when they smile.”
Sans nods slowly. “yeah, that’s not hurting the theory.”
I frown at the counter as another question occurs to me. “Does attraction mean I want to kiss them?”
“maybe,” Sans answers. “some people do, some people don’t, and sometimes it takes a while to figure that part out. feelings aren’t a checklist, kid. you don’t have to know everything the second they show up.”
I try to imagine kissing Kris, but the thought causes a rush of warmth to spread from my chest into my face so quickly that I immediately look away from Sans.
Sans watches my reaction and says, “guess the idea didn’t make you completely miserable.”
“I do not know whether I would want to,” I reply, rubbing one hand over my heated cheek. “I have never kissed anyone, and I do not know what it is supposed to feel like.”
“probably something to figure out later,” Sans tells me. “preferably with another consenting participant. makes the experiment less weird.”
“I am not planning an experiment,” I say.
“good,” Sans replies. “kris hates paperwork.”
I glance toward him and realise he has allowed the joke to soften the conversation without dismissing it entirely. The discovery makes it easier to ask the question that has been bothering me since he first suggested that I might like Kris differently.
“Does this feeling have a name?” I ask.
Sans leans back slightly on the stool. “usually people call it a crush.”
“A crush,” I repeat, disliking the violence implied by the word. “That sounds painful.”
“sometimes it is,” Sans says. “mostly it just means you’ve got feelings for somebody and haven’t figured out what to do with them yet.”
I consider Kris’s flower, which is now resting inside a glass of water on the windowsill upstairs. I think about the drinks they bring me, the way they shorten their stride when we walk together and the rare smiles that make every terrible joke feel successful. I have spent months assuming my body was warning me that something about Kris was dangerous, yet the possibility that I simply want to be closer to them fits more naturally than I expect.
“I think I have a crush on Kris,” I say slowly.
Sans nods as though I have solved something important. “looks that way.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” I ask.
“nothing you don’t wanna do,” Sans replies. “you can take your time, figure out how you feel and keep getting to know ‘em. having feelings doesn’t mean you owe anybody a confession.”
The answer settles some of the panic inside me. So many things about my existence began with choices being made before I understood them that I had assumed identifying this feeling would immediately require another decision. Sans’s explanation offers something gentler: I am allowed to know what the feeling is without acting before I am ready.
“Kris does not need to know yet,” I say.
“then kris doesn’t need to know yet,” Sans agrees.
I look toward the back door one final time, imagining Kris returning through it tomorrow evening with their untidy hair, faded sweater and quiet voice. The thought causes the familiar fluttering to begin again, but now that I understand it is not a warning, the sensation feels less frightening.
“It still feels as though I might vomit,” I tell Sans.
“romance,” Sans replies as he picks up his abandoned magazine. “beautiful thing.”
“I am beginning to think you are not qualified to explain this,” I say.
“probably not,” Sans agrees. “but i’m the only skeleton here with a love of the subject.”
I stare at him until the joke reaches me, then cover my face with both hands as Sans chuckles beside me. The embarrassment remains, but beneath it lies a new and strangely comforting certainty.
Nothing is wrong with me.
I simply like Kris in a way I have never liked anyone before, and for now, the knowledge can remain mine.
Toriel’s invitation arrives several days after Sans explains what a crush is, although I initially believe she is only being polite when she mentions dinner at the store. She has stopped by near the end of the afternoon carrying another covered tray, and while Kris pretends to organise a display of biscuits several feet away, Toriel tells Sans that she has made far too much food and would be delighted if both of us joined her the following evening.
“Of course, Y/N is invited as well,” Toriel says as she turns toward me with a warm smile. “I have been meaning to have you both over properly, and Kris has spoken so highly of you.”
A packet slips from Kris’s hand and lands sideways against the shelf. They catch it before it falls to the floor, although the speed of the movement suggests Toriel’s statement has affected them more than the unstable display.
“Mom,” Kris says, keeping their attention fixed on the biscuits, “I said they were good at their job.”
Toriel looks toward Kris with innocent confusion. “You have said considerably more than that, my child.”
Kris becomes completely still, and I feel my stomach flutter at the thought of them speaking about me when I am not present. Since my conversation with Sans, the feeling has become easier to recognise, although understanding it has not made it any less inconvenient. Now, instead of wondering whether I am becoming ill, I simply know that I am experiencing a crush and might still become ill as a result.
“We would be happy to come,” Sans answers before Kris can prevent their mother from revealing anything else. “assuming the invitation includes dessert.”
“My invitations always include dessert,” Toriel tells Sans.
“then we’d be rude not to,” Sans replies.
I glance toward Kris and find them already looking at me from beneath their hair. Their gaze moves away almost immediately, but the brief contact is enough to make my heart stumble inside my chest.
“That sounds nice,” I tell Toriel, hoping my voice does not reveal how suddenly nervous I have become. “Thank you for inviting us.”
Toriel clasps her hands together with visible delight. “Wonderful,” she says. “Dinner will be at six, although you are both welcome to come earlier. Kris can show you around while Sans helps me in the kitchen.”
Sans turns toward Toriel and asks, “was helping part of the original invitation?”
“It is now,” Toriel replies pleasantly.
The following afternoon, I begin preparing nearly three hours before we are supposed to leave. I tell myself that this is because I am unfamiliar with visiting someone else’s home and want to ensure that I understand what is expected of me, but the collection of rejected clothes covering my bed suggests a less practical explanation. Every outfit I usually wear feels suddenly inadequate, particularly when I imagine Kris opening the door and seeing me dressed exactly as I do during every shift.
I eventually choose a dress I purchased several weeks earlier but have never found a reason to wear. The fabric is a deep plum colour, darker than the purple apron I wear at the store, with long sleeves made from soft material that gathers slightly at my wrists and a skirt that falls just above my knees. It is neither particularly extravagant nor uncomfortable, but the fitted waist and open neckline make me feel more visible than I am accustomed to being.
I stand in front of the narrow mirror above the dresser and smooth both hands over the skirt for what must be the twentieth time. The person reflected there looks recognisably like me, although different enough that I begin questioning whether wearing the dress is dishonest. Kris has only ever seen me in loose jumpers, work clothes and the oversized shirts Sans bought before either of us knew what size I needed. Arriving at their home dressed like this might make it obvious that I care what they think.
That possibility sends another wave of nervous warmth through my chest.
Sans appears in the doorway behind me without knocking, which he has repeatedly claimed is acceptable because he does not technically possess knuckles in the traditional sense. He looks from the clothes scattered across the mattress to the dress I am wearing, then returns his attention to my reflection.
“you look nice, kid,” Sans says.
I turn toward him and ask, “Too nice?”
Sans slides both hands into the pockets of his jacket. “didn’t know nice had an upper limit.”
“I usually dress differently,” I explain as I tug at one sleeve. “Kris may think I am attempting to make them notice me.”
Sans’s grin widens slightly. “are you attempting to make them notice you?”
“I do not know,” I admit. “I would like them to notice, but I do not want them to realise that I would like them to notice.”
“I am trying to protect the secret you already know,” I remind him. “You said I did not have to tell Kris yet.”
“you don’t,” Sans agrees. “wearing a dress isn’t a confession. sometimes clothes are just clothes.”
I look back toward the mirror, although his reassurance does little to slow my heartbeat. “Do you think Kris will like it?”
Sans is silent for just long enough that I turn to glare at him.
“probably,” Sans answers, lifting both hands slightly. “was trying not to make it weird.”
“You have never allowed that concern to stop you before,” I tell him.
“personal growth,” Sans replies. “really suits me.”
I decide to keep the dress.
The walk to the Dreemurr house is short enough that Sans could have reached it in several minutes, although he matches my pace without commenting on how often I slow down. The closer we move toward the house, the stronger my nervousness becomes, and by the time we reach the front path, I have checked the sleeves of my dress so many times that the fabric cannot possibly become any smoother.
The house sits quietly beneath the evening light, warm yellow spilling through the windows and across the small front garden. I have never visited before, yet the sight of the building creates a faint pressure behind my eyes. The shape of the roof, the windows and the narrow path toward the porch all feel known to me, not in the comfortable way that the grocery store has gradually become familiar, but with the unsettling certainty of returning somewhere I cannot remember leaving.
Sans glances toward me as we approach the door. “you good?” he asks.
“I think so,” I reply, although my attention remains fixed on the front window. “The house feels familiar.”
Sans studies my face for a moment before asking, “memory familiar or crush familiar?”
“I do not think a crush can make architecture familiar,” I tell him.
“never know,” Sans replies. “romance has a strong foundation.”
Before I can tell him how terrible the joke is, the front door opens.
Kris stands on the other side wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and dark trousers instead of their usual faded sweater. Their hair is still untidy, although it appears slightly less accidental than usual, and the sight of them causes every prepared greeting to disappear from my mind.
Kris looks first toward Sans, then toward me. Their visible eye moves over the dress before returning to my face, and they remain silent long enough that I become painfully aware of my hands hanging uselessly at my sides.
“Hello,” I say when the silence begins to feel unbearable.
“Hi,” Kris replies, although their gaze returns briefly to the dress.
I wait for them to say something else, but Kris appears to be struggling with the same difficulty. The tips of their ears begin turning pink, and the sight makes the nervous feeling inside me shift into something warmer.
Sans looks between us before saying, “good talk. really glad we dressed up for it.”
Kris glances toward Sans with a tired expression, then looks back at me. “You look nice,” they say quietly.
The compliment enters my chest like a sudden physical force. “Thank you,” I answer, hoping my voice sounds normal. “You also look nice. Your clothes are less striped than usual.”
Kris looks down at their shirt. “That’s your compliment?”
“I was unprepared,” I explain. “I had a better one outside, but then you opened the door.”
The corner of Kris’s mouth lifts slightly. “You look really nice,” they repeat, placing more emphasis on the final words.
My stomach twists pleasantly and unpleasantly at the same time. “Thank you,” I say again. “I chose the dress because I thought you might—because dinner seemed important.”
Kris’s almost-smile remains as they step aside. “Come in before Sans says something.”
“too late,” Sans says as he walks past them. “i’ve been saying things all day.”
The moment I cross the threshold, the warmth of the house closes around me. The air smells like cinnamon, roasted vegetables and something buttery baking in the kitchen, while framed photographs and small decorations cover the walls. Toriel calls a greeting from the kitchen before appearing in the hallway with an apron tied over her dress, and her face brightens when she sees us.
“Oh, Y/N, you look lovely,” Toriel says as she approaches. “That colour suits you beautifully.”
“Thank you,” I reply, attempting to recover from receiving two compliments within the same minute. “The dress has spent several weeks waiting for an appropriate occasion.”
“Then I am honoured that you chose tonight,” Toriel tells me.
Sans looks toward the kitchen and asks, “food waiting for an appropriate occasion too?”
“The food is waiting for you to wash your hands,” Toriel replies as she turns him toward the sink.
While Toriel directs Sans into the kitchen, Kris remains beside me near the front door. I begin to remove my shoes, but the movement triggers another flash of familiarity. For a moment, I see the hallway from a lower angle, with a pair of shoes kicked carelessly against the wall and a school bag dropped near the stairs. The image disappears almost immediately, replaced by the real hallway and the neat space where Kris has placed their shoes.
I remain crouched longer than necessary.
Kris notices and asks, “Did you remember something?”
“I think so,” I answer as I stand. “There were shoes here, and a bag near the stairs. Everything looked less organised.”
Kris follows my gaze toward the wall. “That could have been any day before Mom threatened to put everything in the rubbish.”
“You left one shoe farther into the hallway,” I say before I can stop myself. “We nearly tripped over it.”
The word makes Kris’s expression tighten, although they do not correct me immediately.
“You said ‘we’ again,” Kris points out quietly.
“I know,” I reply, lowering my voice so that Toriel and Sans cannot hear us from the kitchen. “I still do not know who I mean.”
Kris glances toward the stairs before asking, “Does anything else feel familiar?”
I look around the hallway, allowing my attention to move across the framed photographs, the entrance to the living room and the warm light spilling from the kitchen. Pieces of recognition flicker without forming a complete picture. I know there should be a chair positioned farther inside the living room, and I expect to see something hanging near a doorway before discovering that nothing is there. When Toriel calls us to dinner, I already know which direction to turn.
The dining table produces the strongest sensation yet. I recognise the seat Kris chooses before they sit down, and when Toriel places a pie near the centre, I remember viewing another pie from across the same table while hands that were not mine rested against the wood. The memories remain distant enough that I can endure them, although I repeatedly catch Kris watching me while Sans and Toriel speak.
Dinner itself passes more comfortably than I expect. Toriel asks me about living above the store and listens with genuine interest while I explain how Sans taught me to use the washing machine only after I dyed several shirts blue. Sans insists the colour change was an intentional redesign, while Kris quietly informs their mother that he wore the shirts for three days before noticing.
Toriel also asks whether I have developed any interests outside work, and I realise that I have no satisfactory answer. Most of my time has been spent learning how ordinary life functions, and the hobbies I have attempted were usually suggested by Sans because the necessary supplies happened to be discounted.
“I read sometimes,” I tell Toriel. “Sans brought home several books, although most of them appear to be collections of jokes he has already told me.”
“reference materials,” Sans corrects.
“You said you found them in a box beside the rubbish bins,” I remind him.
“archived reference materials,” Sans replies.
Kris looks toward me from across the table and says, “You can borrow some of mine.”
“What kind of books do you have?” I ask.
Kris thinks for a moment before answering, “Music books, old comics, some horror novels and whatever Asriel left behind.”
Toriel smiles at Kris before telling me, “Kris has always loved music. They took piano lessons for several years, although convincing them to perform for anyone was nearly impossible.”
Kris’s shoulders rise immediately. “Mom,” they say.
“What?” Toriel asks with a look of innocence that strongly resembles the expression Kris uses when pretending they have done nothing wrong. “I am proud of you.”
I look toward Kris with growing interest. “You play whatever this piano instrument is?”
“A little,” Kris replies.
“They play beautifully,” Toriel corrects.
Kris pushes a piece of food around their plate and tells her, “You’re exaggerating.”
“I would like to hear you,” I say before considering whether the request might embarrass them.
Kris looks up at me, and the guarded tension in their posture eases slightly. “Maybe later,” they answer.
After dessert, Toriel begins collecting the dishes while Sans remains at the table under the mistaken belief that sitting near the plates counts as assisting. I stand to help, but Toriel gently waves me away and tells me that guests are not expected to clean on their first visit.
“Kris, why do you not show Y/N your room?” Toriel suggests as she carries several plates toward the kitchen. “You two can spend some time together while Sans makes himself useful.”
“sounds dangerous,” Sans comments.
“I was referring to you washing the dishes,” Toriel tells him.
Sans looks toward the kitchen with visible resignation. “knew this invitation had strings attached.”
Kris rises from the table and looks toward me. “Do you want to come upstairs?” they ask.
The question causes the butterflies to return so suddenly that I nearly mistake them for another memory. “Yes,” I answer, perhaps too quickly. “I would like to see your room.”
Kris turns toward the stairs, and I follow them while attempting not to think about the fact that I am about to be alone with them in a bedroom. The effort fails almost immediately, particularly when Kris glances back to ensure I am behind them and slows their stride without being asked.
The sensation of familiarity becomes stronger with each step.
I know the hallway will turn before we reach the top, and I expect the bathroom door to appear on the left before it comes into view. A series of brief images overlaps the real house: darkness beneath a closed door, pale moonlight against the floor and a hand gripping the stair rail while a red shape beats somewhere beneath our ribs. I stumble on the final step, and Kris catches my arm before I can fall backward.
“Y/N?” Kris asks, keeping one hand around my forearm. “What happened?”
“I knew where the bathroom was,” I explain as I regain my balance. “I knew before I saw it.”
Kris does not release my arm immediately. “You’ve never been here” they ask.
“No,” I reply. “At least, I do not think I have.”
Kris’s fingers loosen gradually before falling away, although the warmth of their hand remains against my skin. They continue down the hall more cautiously, watching me whenever we pass another doorway.
Their bedroom is at the far end.
The moment Kris opens the door, the pressure behind my eyes becomes painful enough that I stop at the threshold. The room is dimmer than the hallway, illuminated by a lamp near one bed and the remaining evening light filtering through the window. It is messier than the rest of the house, with clothes draped over the back of a chair, compact discs stacked unevenly beside a small player and several vinyl records leaning against the wall. A strange long rectangle object rests on a narrow stand near the window, surrounded by tangled cables and several pages of handwritten music.
There are two beds, although one side of the room appears less occupied than the other. Shelves hold old trophies, books and objects I cannot immediately identify, while a red wagon rests near the wall with a metal birdcage placed inside it.
The sight of the cage tears something open inside me.
The room disappears beneath darkness and moonlight. I see the cage from the opposite side of the room, not through my own eyes but through a gaze positioned higher than mine. A pale hand reaches beneath a shirt, fingers pressing into a chest while something red struggles beneath the skin. There is pain, although it does not belong to me, followed by the violent sensation of being pulled outward and thrown into metal. The cage rattles, and the world becomes narrow bars, a dark room and the sight of a body moving without us.
I grip the doorframe as the memory collapses.
Kris turns toward me immediately. “What did you see?” they ask.
“The cage,” I whisper, unable to move my attention away from it. “I remember being inside it.”
Kris becomes completely motionless.
I look down at my chest, pressing one hand against the fabric of my dress as though I expect to find something moving beneath it. “No, that is not right,” I say, struggling to arrange the images. “I remember looking at it from the bed, but I also remember being behind the bars.
I remember your hand, and there was something red, and then you were standing without—”
My voice fails before I can complete the thought.
Kris quietly closes the bedroom door behind us. Their expression has become guarded, but not confused, and the lack of surprise frightens me more than disbelief would have.
“You know what I am talking about,” I tell Kris.
Kris looks toward the birdcage before answering. “Maybe.”
“What is it?” I ask. “Why do I remember being here?”
Kris crosses the room and sits on the edge of their bed, leaving enough space beside them that the gesture feels like an invitation. “I don’t know why you remember it,” they say. “But the cage is real.”
I remain near the doorway. “What was inside it?”
Kris lowers their gaze toward their hands. “Something that was inside me first, however it is no longer part of me.”
The answer sends a chill through my body. “A soul?” I ask, remembering the red heart from the darkness.
Kris looks up sharply. “How do you know that?”
“I do not,” I admit. “The word simply feels correct.”
For several seconds, the only sound in the room comes from the quiet voices of Toriel and Sans downstairs. Kris rubs one hand against the centre of their chest, and the movement creates another flicker of memory that I force myself not to follow.
“Sometimes It would feel like it made choices,” Kris says, speaking so quietly that I almost miss the words. “Not all the time, but sometimes.”
I move farther into the room and ask, “What do you mean by ‘made’ choices?”
Kris’s fingers curl against their shirt. “I mean that I would move when I didn’t want to move, or say things I wasn’t going to say. Sometimes I could stop it, and sometimes I couldn’t.”
My stomach turns cold as their explanation settles around the memories I have carried since waking. “I remember choices,” I tell Kris. “I remember someone selecting parts of me, answering questions and deciding what I was supposed to be. I thought those memories belonged to the person who created me, but the others feel different. When I remember this room, I am not watching you from somewhere else. I am looking through you.”
Kris’s gaze remains fixed on me. “Maybe you went through the same thing,” they suggest.
“Like, the same person?” I ask.
“Or the same soul, or same experience” Kris replies.
The possibility overwhelms me before I can examine it properly. I see the dark place where I first woke, the questions that built my body and the red heart beating behind the bars of the cage. The memories begin overlapping until I can no longer tell which ones belong to me, Kris or something neither of us can name.
“I do not understand,” I admit as I press both hands against my temples. “If the soul was inside you, then why do I remember its choices? Why was I created for it? Why did someone discard me and place it inside you instead?”
Kris rises from the bed, although they stop before coming too close. “Y/N,” they say, their voice gentle despite the tension in their expression, “we don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
The use of we catches my attention, but this time the word does not feel stolen or accidental. Kris means the two of us, standing inside the same room and sharing a question neither of us can answer.
“I want to understand,” I tell them.
“I know,” Kris replies. “But you look like you’re going to pass out.”
“I am also wearing an unfamiliar dress and standing inside the bedroom of the person I—”
I stop before the rest of the sentence can escape.
Kris tilts their head. “The person you what?”
“The person I work with,” I answer immediately.
Kris’s visible eye narrows, although they do not challenge the obvious correction. Instead, they gesture toward the bed again and say, “Sit down before you fall down.”
I cross the room and sit near the edge of Kris’s bed, carefully arranging the skirt beneath me. The mattress shifts when Kris sits beside me, and although they leave a polite amount of space between us, their presence immediately awakens the nervous fluttering in my stomach. The fear created by the memory becomes tangled with the awareness that I am sitting on Kris’s bed while wearing a dress they said looked nice, and my body seems incapable of deciding which emotion deserves priority.
Kris’s room gives me somewhere else to direct my attention. Up close, I can see that the mess follows a pattern, with stacks of compact discs arranged near the player and vinyl records separated into leaning groups beside a small crate. Posters cover parts of the wall, some showing bands I do not recognise and others displaying strange monochrome artwork that appears deliberately unsettling.
“You have a lot of music,” I say, grateful for a subject that does not involve souls, cages or the sentence I nearly completed.
Kris follows my gaze toward the records. “Asriel left some of it,” they explain. “The rest is mine.”
“I do not listen to much music,” I admit. “Sans mostly plays songs with skeletons mentioned in the title, and I suspect he searches for them specifically.”
“He does,” Kris says. “He played ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons’ for three hours last Halloween.”
“He told me that was a traditional holiday practice.”
“I am beginning to discover that many of his traditions are lies,” I tell them.
Kris’s mouth curves into a faint smile before they reach toward a stack of compact discs beside the bed. “What do you like?” they ask.
“I do not know enough music to answer,” I admit. “I like some of the songs that play in the store, although Sans usually changes them when he thinks they are becoming too sincere.”
Kris studies the cases in their hands before selecting one. “This is Deftones,” they say as they show me the cover. “They’re heavy, but not all the time. Some of it sounds like being half-awake and angry about it.”
“That description does not sound flattering,” I point out.
“It is to me,” Kris replies.
They place the disc into the player, lower the volume and allow the room to fill with distorted guitars and a voice that seems both distant and painfully close. I listen carefully, uncertain what I am expected to notice, but the sound gradually settles into the room until it feels inseparable from the low light and the clutter surrounding us.
“It sounds like somebody trying to whisper while a building collapses,” I tell Kris.
Kris looks toward me with visible approval. “Exactly.”
The next band they show me is Radiohead, which Kris describes as music for when a person wants to feel worse in a very specific way. The song they choose begins quietly before unfolding into something uneasy and mechanical, and I find myself imagining rain against windows, empty roads and a machine attempting to understand why it is lonely.
“This one sounds like being trapped somewhere familiar,” I say.
Kris’s attention shifts from the player to my face. “Do you like it?”
“I think so,” I answer. “It makes me uncomfortable, but deliberately.”
“That’s most of Radiohead,” Kris explains.
Kris chooses Panchiko next, showing me an old-looking cover before explaining that the band disappeared for years and was rediscovered because somebody found one of their discs in a charity shop. The story interests me almost as much as the music.
“So they existed, but nobody knew where they were,” I say while the first song begins. “Then someone found proof.”
Kris nods. “Pretty much.”
I listen to the hazy sound filling the room and look toward the stacks of old discs. “I think I like that,” I tell them. “Being found because something remained behind.”
Kris becomes quiet beside me, and when I glance toward them, their expression has softened. “Yeah,” Kris says. “I thought you might.”
The answer causes warmth to spread through my chest again, and I wonder whether Kris chose the band because the story reminded them of me. The possibility makes sitting still increasingly difficult, so I rise from the bed and begin walking around the room under the pretence of examining the music collection.
I pause near the posters, look through several vinyl covers without removing them from their sleeves and eventually approach the long rectangle object by the window. It resembles a narrow, maybe perhaps would I could assume is a keyboard of some kind, although the dark surface is covered in buttons that isn’t typical for computer keyboards.
“What is this?” I ask as I rest one finger against a key.
A loud note sounds through the room.
I jerk my hand away so quickly that my hip strikes the edge of the stand. The keyboard wobbles, and Kris catches it before it can tip farther.
“It made a noise,” I say, staring at the rectangle object.
Kris steadies the stand and looks toward me. “That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“I did not expect it to respond immediately,” I explain. “Most objects do not announce when I touch them.”
“It’s a keyboard,” Kris tells me. “A digital piano.”
I look from the keys to the handwritten pages nearby. “Your mother said you played piano, but I imagined something different, maybe something larger? This does not look like a typical instrument.”
“The school has a real one,” Kris explains. “This is easier to fit in here.”
I press another key more carefully, producing a softer note this time. The sound lingers briefly before fading, and I touch the neighbouring key to hear how it changes.
“Each one makes a different sound,” I observe.
“That’s usually the idea,” Kris replies.
I glance over my shoulder and find them standing close enough that I need to tilt my head to meet their gaze. “You are making fun of me.”
“I have never used one before,” I remind them.
Kris moves beside me and points toward the keys. “The white ones are the natural notes, and the black ones are sharps and flats,” they explain. “You don’t need to know all of that yet. You can just press them.”
I look at the rows of keys and ask, “How do you know which ones to press?”
“Practice,” Kris answers. “And remembering patterns.”
The word patterns briefly awakens the pressure behind my eyes, but I push the feeling away before it can become another memory. “Will you play something?” I ask.
Kris becomes slightly more guarded. “Now?”
“Yes,” I reply, moving away from the keyboard to give them space. “You said maybe later, and it is later.”
“I said that because Mom was watching,” Kris tells me.
“So you did not mean it?”
Kris looks toward the keyboard, then back toward me. “I meant maybe.”
I wait without asking again. Sans has taught me that silence can be uncomfortable, but Kris has taught me that it does not always need to be filled. After several seconds, they move toward the small chair beside the stand and sit down.
“You have to promise not to make a piano pun,” Kris says as they adjust the height of the music stand.
“I cannot promise something so unreasonable,” I reply.
Kris gives me a flat look.
“I will postpone the pun until you have finished,” I amend.
“That is the best offer I’m getting, isn’t it?” Kris asks.
Kris turns toward the keyboard and rests both hands over the keys. The change in their posture is immediate; their shoulders loosen, their fingers settle with quiet certainty and the awkwardness they usually carry seems to disappear before the first note is played.
The melody begins softly.
It is not one of the songs Kris showed me, or at least not one I recognise. The notes move slowly at first, careful and separated, before gathering into something warmer. There is sadness beneath the melody, but it does not feel hopeless. It sounds like walking through a dark place while knowing somebody waits at the other end, or remembering a home that has changed without becoming entirely lost.
I return to the edge of the bed and sit down without taking my eyes from Kris. Their hair falls forward as they play, hiding more of their face, while the evening light catches along their hands as they move across the keys. I have seen those hands lift boxes, arrange shelves and hold a damaged flower toward me, but watching them create something makes them feel newly unfamiliar.
The butterflies return, although this time I do not resent them.
When Kris reaches the end, the final note lingers inside the room before fading into silence. They keep their hands resting over the keyboard for several seconds, perhaps waiting for me to speak.
“That was beautiful,” I tell Kris, and for once I do not search for a joke to soften the honesty.
Kris glances toward me from beneath their hair. “You think so?”
“Yes,” I answer. “It felt familiar, but not in the frightening way.”
Kris lowers their hands into their lap. “I wrote it a while ago,” they explain. “I never finished it.”
“It sounded finished to me,” I say.
“It isn’t,” Kris replies. “I don’t know what comes after that part.”
I look toward the keys, then back toward them. “Maybe you have not decided yet.”
Kris studies me quietly before saying, “Maybe.”
The room remains still around us, filled with old music, scattered records and the unanswered questions waiting inside the birdcage near the wall. I know that the memories will return, and that eventually Kris and I will need to understand why parts of their life exist inside me. For now, however, Kris turns back toward the keyboard and plays the beginning of the melody again, more slowly this time, while I sit on their bed and listen.
For the first time since entering the house, the familiarity does not feel like something stealing me away from myself.
It feels like being invited in.
Several days pass after dinner at the Dreemurr house, although the memory of Kris playing the keyboard follows me through each one of them. I find myself hearing pieces of the unfinished melody while arranging shelves, walking upstairs after closing and lying awake in my room with the yellow flower still resting in a glass beside the window. The tune never returns clearly enough for me to repeat it, but I remember the way Kris changed when their hands touched the keys, how the usual tension left their shoulders and how their expression became softer when I told them the song was beautiful.
I also remember the birdcage.
Whenever the memory resurfaces, it brings the sensation of narrow metal bars, a red light beating against the darkness and the impossible certainty that I once occupied a space inside Kris’s body. I attempt to separate those images from the rest of the evening, but they remain tangled together with warmer details: the records scattered around the room, Kris showing me their favourite bands and the quiet way they played the melody again after our conversation ended.
Kris does not mention the cage when they return to work, and I decide not to force the subject. They behave as they usually do, bringing me a canned drink without commenting on it, insulting my height whenever I cannot reach a shelf and pretending not to smile at the jokes I have spent several hours preparing. The normality is clearly deliberate, but rather than feeling dishonest, it offers both of us somewhere safe to stand while we decide what to do with everything we do not understand.
The store is unusually quiet late one afternoon, with no customers wandering between the aisles and no delivery boxes waiting near the stockroom. Sans has disappeared behind the counter with his magazine, although the fact that I can see the top of his skull above the pages suggests he has not gone far. Kris and I stand together in the confectionery aisle, checking expiration dates on sweets that appear capable of surviving long after the rest of civilisation has disappeared.
I hold up a brightly coloured packet and examine the date printed along the bottom. “This says it expired two months ago,” I tell Kris.
Kris glances toward the packet before replying, “That’s probably fine.”
“That does not sound like responsible food safety,” I point out.
“It’s mostly sugar,” Kris explains as they return another packet to the shelf. “Sugar doesn’t die.”
I look down at the artificial colours visible through the plastic. “This appears to have died several times already.”
Kris takes the packet from me and drops it into the box reserved for expired products. “Then Sans will eat it later,” they say.
From the front of the store, Sans calls, “heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” Kris replies without raising their voice.
Sans lowers his magazine enough to look over the shelf. “appreciate you thinking of me.”
Kris returns their attention to the sweets while I attempt to understand whether Sans truly intends to eat the expired food. Before I can ask, Kris begins rearranging several packets that do not require rearranging. Their movements appear casual at first, although they continue shifting the same two items back and forth without settling on either position.
I watch them for several seconds before asking, “Are you having difficulty deciding where those belong?”
Kris pauses with one packet in each hand. “No,” they answer.
“You have moved them six times,” I point out.
“I’m checking the shelf," Kris says.
“You checked it during the first four movements," I say.
Kris looks down at me, their expression mostly hidden beneath their hair. “You count everything I do?”
“Only when you are behaving strangely,” I reply. “It makes the pattern easier to identify.”
Kris places both packets on the shelf, although neither appears to be in the location they originally selected. “There’s a festival this weekend,” they say.
The sudden change in subject takes me several seconds to follow. “A festival,” I repeat, looking toward them.
Kris nods as they begin examining a packet that they have already checked. “Hometown has one every year,” they explain. “There are food stalls, games, music and some rides near the park.”
“I have never been to one,” I say.
I tilt my head slightly. “How do you know?”
Kris stops moving, and the visible portion of their face becomes faintly pink. “You’ve only been here a few months,” they answer. “The festival hasn’t happened since Sans found you.”
“That is logical,” I admit, although the speed of their response makes me suspect they considered the question before speaking to me. “Do you usually attend?”
“Sometimes,” Kris says as they place the packet inside the box. “Susie goes because she likes the food, and Noelle likes the lights and the stalls. They’re going together this year.”
I recognise both names from conversations at work and from the stories Kris occasionally tells when the store is quiet. Susie is their closest friend, a tall purple monster whose preferred method of solving most problems appears to involve either threatening them or eating whatever is nearby. Noelle is Susie’s girlfriend, a reindeer monster Kris has known since childhood, although Kris becomes noticeably evasive whenever I ask how long it took Susie and Noelle to realise they liked each other.
“They sound as though they enjoy festivals for very different reasons,” I say.
“They do,” Kris replies. “It works.”
I glance toward the front counter, where Sans has raised his magazine again, before returning my attention to Kris. “Are you going with them?”
“Probably,” Kris answers, but the word comes after a pause long enough to make the uncertainty feel deliberate. They look toward the sweets rather than at me as they add, “You could come too.”
My heart gives the familiar sudden beat that I have now learned to recognise as excitement rather than illness. The fluttering begins beneath my ribs almost immediately, and I tighten my grip around the box in my hands so that I do not drop it.
“You are asking me to attend the festival with you?” I ask.
Kris glances down at me from beneath their hair. “And Susie and Noelle,” they clarify quickly. “They’ll be there too.”
“Yes, you mentioned them,” I reply, attempting not to sound disappointed by how firmly Kris emphasises the presence of other people. “I only wanted to make sure that you were inviting me rather than informing me that a festival exists.”
“I’m inviting you,” Kris says.
The confirmation makes warmth spread through my chest, and for several seconds I cannot think of a response that does not sound absurdly enthusiastic. I look down at the box, then toward the front counter, before finally looking back at Kris.
“Oh,” I say, drawing the sound out while I attempt to arrange my thoughts. “Yes, I would like to go with you.”
Kris’s posture loosens slightly, although I notice that they are still watching me more carefully than usual. “Okay,” they reply.
“I would need to ask Sans first,” I add. “I do not know whether I am scheduled to work, and I should make sure he is comfortable with me going.”
Kris looks toward the front of the store. “You’re an adult.”
“I know,” I reply. “Sans still worries about me, even when he pretends not to, and I have never been somewhere like that before. It seems reasonable to tell him where I am going.”
From behind the magazine, Sans says, “i’m okay with it.”
I turn toward him and ask, “Were you listening to the entire conversation?”
“nah,” Sans answers. “just the part where kris spent ten minutes building up the courage to ask you something.”
Kris becomes completely still beside me.
“I did not take ten minutes,” Kris says.
“felt longer from here,” Sans replies.
Kris looks toward him with the same expression they usually reserve for damaged machinery and particularly difficult customers. “You were reading.”
“multitasking,” Sans explains. “eyes on the page, ears in the aisle.”
I lower the box onto the floor and look between them. “So I am allowed to go?”
Sans closes the magazine and rests it across the counter. “course you are, kid,” he says. “festival’s safe, and you’ll be with kris.”
The simplicity of his trust causes my attention to return to Kris. They have looked away from both of us, although the colour has spread from the tips of their ears toward their face.
“And Susie and Noelle,” Kris adds again.
“right,” Sans replies. “the chaperones.”
“They are not chaperoning us,” Kris tells him.
“good,” Sans says. “was worried susie might eat the whistle.”
I look toward Kris and ask, “Would Susie actually eat a whistle?”
Kris considers the question longer than I expect. “If someone told her not to,” they answer.
“That does not make me feel safer,” I admit.
“You’ll be fine,” Kris says, and the quiet certainty in their voice settles some of the nervousness gathering inside me. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The sentence affects me far more strongly than it should. My heart stumbles again, and I lower my attention toward the expired sweets so that neither Kris nor Sans can see the warmth spreading into my face.
“I appreciate that,” I reply. “Although I would prefer if nothing attempted to happen to me in the first place.”
“That’s not guaranteed,” Kris says.
“Especially with Susie,” Sans adds from the counter.
I look toward Sans and tell him, “Your reassurance has become significantly worse since I began living with you.”
“you’re still here,” Sans points out. “must be doing something right.”
Kris crouches beside the box and begins removing another row of packets from the lowest shelf. I lower myself beside them, careful to leave enough space that our shoulders do not touch, although the aisle is narrow enough that avoiding contact requires more effort than I expected.
“What should I wear?” I ask Kris.
Kris turns their head toward me. “Clothes.”
“I understand that part,” I reply. “I meant whether festivals require something specific.”
“No,” Kris answers. “Wear whatever you want.”
The freedom of the response should be reassuring, but it immediately creates too many possibilities. “Is it more formal than dinner at your house?” I ask.
Kris’s visible eye moves briefly over me, as though remembering the plum dress. “No,” they say. “You don’t have to dress up.”
“I did not have to dress up for dinner either,” I remind them.
“Yes,” I reply, lowering my gaze toward the packets. “I wanted to.”
Kris becomes quiet beside me, and when I glance upward, I find them still looking in my direction. The silence stretches long enough that the butterflies begin moving again.
“You looked nice,” Kris says finally.
The compliment is quieter than the first one they gave me at the door, but it carries the same effect. I attempt to return the packet in my hands to the shelf and accidentally place it upside down.
“You said that already,” I reply.
I correct the packet and tell them, “You also looked nice.”
“You said my clothes were less striped.”
“I panicked,” I explain. “You opened the door while looking unexpectedly attractive.”
The words escape before I can stop them.
Kris’s hand freezes halfway toward the shelf.
My body follows several seconds later, once I realise what I have said. The store becomes painfully silent, and even Sans refrains from commenting from the front counter.
“I meant appropriately dressed,” I add, although the correction arrives too late to rescue either of us. “You looked unexpectedly appropriately dressed.”
Kris slowly places the packet on the shelf. “That’s worse,” they say, but the tips of their ears have turned bright pink.
“I know,” I admit. “I panicked again.”
Kris looks toward me, and a small, crooked smile gradually appears beneath their hair. “You do that a lot around me,” they say.
The observation is too close to the truth, so I choose to redirect the conversation before my expression can reveal anything. “What happens at the festival?” I ask. “You mentioned food, games, music and rides, but those categories remain extremely broad.”
Kris allows the change of subject, although their smile remains while they return to the shelf. “There’s usually a stage near the centre of town,” they explain. “The school choir performs early, and there are local bands later. The rides are set up near the park, and most of the shops have stalls.”
“Will your mother be performing with the choir?” I ask.
“She conducts,” Kris replies. “Don't worry, she won't make us watch though.”
“Do you dislike watching?”
Kris shrugs. “Not really. I just have to pretend I do.”
“Tradition,” Kris answers.
I nod seriously. “I understand. Sans has taught me that traditions are usually lies repeated with confidence.”
“that’s my kid,” Sans calls from the counter.
Kris glances toward him before continuing. “Dad will probably have a flower stall, and Noelle’s dad usually helps organise things. Susie mostly tries to eat enough food to make every stall regret opening.”
Kris pauses before answering. “Whatever everyone else wants.”
The response sounds simple, but it leaves me strangely dissatisfied. “What do you want to do?” I ask.
Kris looks down at the packet in their hands. “I don’t know.”
“You must like something about the festival.”
Kris considers the question while their fingers trace the edge of the packaging. “The lights are nice after dark,” they eventually say. “The town looks different when everything is lit up, and the music carries farther from the stage.”
The image settles warmly inside my mind. “Then I would like to see the lights with you,” I tell them.
Kris’s gaze lifts to mine, and the expression on their face becomes difficult to read. The crooked smile fades into something softer, while the colour remains faintly visible along their ears.
“Okay,” Kris says. “We can stay until it gets dark.”
The word *we* enters the space between us without carrying any of the fear attached to my memories. Kris means us deliberately, the two of us making a choice about something that has not happened yet, and the distinction causes a quiet warmth to spread beneath my ribs.
“What time should I be ready?” I ask.
“I can come by the store around 1pm,” Kris answers. “Susie and Noelle are meeting us near the park.”
“You are coming here first?” I ask.
Kris nods as though the arrangement is obvious. “We can walk together.”
The butterflies become almost unbearable. “Yes,” I reply, trying not to smile too widely. “Walking together would be sensible.”
Kris watches me for a moment before asking, “Are you going to arrive downstairs an hour early again?”
“I have never attended a festival,” I remind them. “I may require two hours.”
“You only need to put on clothes.”
“That was your advice for what to wear,” I point out. “You did not specify how long the process should take.”
Kris’s smile returns. “I’ll be here at one” they say.
“I will be ready at one,” I promise.
From the front counter, Sans clears his throat with such unnecessary force that both Kris and I look toward him. He has opened his magazine again, although it is upside down.
“real subtle,” Sans comments.
“I do not know what you mean,” I reply.
“didn’t say i meant you,” Sans answers.
Kris rises from the floor and carries the expired products toward the counter, giving Sans a look that should be sufficient to end the conversation. Sans only turns one inverted page and continues pretending not to notice.
I remain crouched beside the shelf for several seconds longer, looking at the packets without truly seeing them. The invitation is not a confession, and Kris has made it clear that Susie and Noelle will be there with us, but the knowledge that they thought of me when planning the festival makes the entire weekend feel suddenly important.
I have never attended a festival, met Kris’s friends or walked through Hometown beneath strings of lights. I do not know what I am supposed to do, how people behave on rides or whether festival food is safer than the expired sweets Sans intends to take home.
I only know that Kris asked me to go with them.
For now, that is enough to make the remainder of the shift feel unusually bright.
On the morning of the festival, I find Sans behind the grocery-store counter even though the shop is closed for the day. He is sitting on his usual stool with one slipper resting against the register, slowly turning the pages of a newspaper that appears to be several months old. I have already checked the time four times despite Kris not arriving until one, and the growing nervousness inside me has made remaining upstairs nearly impossible.
I stop near the counter and tell Sans, “Kris asked me to attend the festival with them, but Susie and Noelle will also be there.”
Sans continues looking at the newspaper as he replies, “pretty sure you mentioned that.”
“I know,” I say as I begin adjusting a display Sans has already arranged for tomorrow. “I have been considering what you told me about different kinds of liking and how people sometimes attend things together when they are interested in each other.”
Sans lowers the newspaper enough to look at me over the top of it. “sounds dangerous,” he comments.
“It is not dangerous,” I reply, although the butterflies moving through my stomach make the word feel uncertain. “I have simply concluded that the festival is not a date because Kris invited their other friends. Therefore, I do not need to be nervous.”
Sans looks at me for several seconds before folding the newspaper across his lap. “that depends on how the night goes,” he says.
I stop with one hand against the display. “What does that mean?”
“means something doesn’t have to start as a date to end up feeling like one,” Sans explains as he leans back on the stool. “you could spend the whole day with the group, or you and kris might end up wandering off together. maybe you share some food, go on a ride, watch the lights come on and realise you’ve been paying more attention to each other than anything else.”
The fluttering beneath my ribs becomes considerably stronger as Sans lists each possibility. “Would that make it a date without either of us agreeing that it is one?” I ask.
“labels usually come after people figure out what they’re doing,” Sans replies. “sometimes way after.”
“That sounds unnecessarily confusing,” I tell him.
“romance usually is,” Sans says. “otherwise nobody would write songs about it.”
I lower my gaze toward the display and attempt to imagine walking through the festival beside Kris. The idea of spending the afternoon with Susie and Noelle does not frighten me nearly as much as the possibility that Kris might look at me beneath the festival lights and decide the day feels different from an ordinary outing.
“I do not know how I want the night to go,” I admit.
Sans raises the newspaper again as he tells me, “you don’t have to decide before it happens, kid. just go, have fun and try not to analyse every time kris looks at you.”
“That seems impossible,” I reply.
“then analyse quietly,” Sans suggests.
I leave him downstairs and return to my room before his advice can become worse. The clothes I selected the previous evening are already arranged across the end of my bed, although I spend another twenty minutes questioning whether they appear too deliberate. I eventually put on a soft blouse with a loose collar and slightly gathered sleeves, then step into a pair of flared jeans that fit closely around my waist before widening over my lower legs. The brown boots I choose have a small heel that makes me slightly taller, although not enough to prevent Kris from commenting on my height if they feel particularly cruel.
The final piece is a tan-brown corduroy jacket with a warm lining and a collar that sits neatly over the blouse. I found it in a second-hand shop several weeks earlier, and although Sans said the colour made me look “well seasoned,” I liked it enough to purchase it anyway. Once I have brushed my hair, adjusted the blouse and changed the position of the jacket collar several times, I stand before the mirror and try to decide whether I look like someone attending a festival or someone who has spent far too long attempting to appear as though they did not spend far too long getting ready.
A knock sounds against the open doorway before Sans leans inside. “kris is here,” he tells me. “managed to arrive only five minutes early, which means one of you is pretending to be normal.”
My heart immediately begins beating harder. “Do I look appropriate?” I ask as I turn away from the mirror.
Sans looks over the outfit before answering, “you look nice.”
“You said that before dinner at Toriel’s house,” I point out.
“still true,” Sans replies. “nice jacket.”
I smooth both hands over the corduroy fabric. “It does not make the outfit appear too coordinated?”
“I do not know yet,” I admit.
Sans stares at me before stepping aside from the doorway. “better go find out.”
I follow him downstairs, attempting to walk normally despite the sudden weakness inside my legs. Kris is waiting near the front counter with both hands tucked into the pockets of an untucked brown collared shirt. Their familiar green-and-yellow sweater is visible beneath it, while brown corduroy trousers fall loosely over a pair of worn brown sneakers.
I stop on the final stair when I realise their trousers are almost exactly the same shade and texture as my jacket.
Kris looks toward the sound of my footsteps, and their visible eye moves from my blouse to the flared jeans before lingering on the jacket.
The corners of their mouth lift slightly as they look down at their own trousers.
The butterflies Sans mentioned become so violent that I briefly regret eating breakfast. “It appears we do,” I reply as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “I did not plan this.”
“I didn’t think you broke into my room to check,” Kris says.
“That would have been extremely difficult,” I tell them. “Your mother would probably offer me pie before I reached the stairs.”
“She would,” Kris agrees.
Sans rests one elbow against the counter and looks between us. “good thing you coordinated,” he comments. “would’ve been embarrassing to show up dressed like two people on a date.”
Kris’s shoulders become noticeably tense, while warmth rushes into my face with enough force that I nearly turn around and return upstairs.
“This is not a date,” I tell Sans, repeating the conclusion I reached earlier. “Susie and Noelle will also be there.”
“course,” Sans replies as he lifts the newspaper again. “have fun with the chaperones.”
“They are not our chaperones,” Kris says, giving Sans a tired look.
Sans turns one page and answers, “then you’d better behave yourselves.”
I decide leaving is the only reliable way to prevent the conversation from becoming worse, so I move toward the front door while Kris follows closely behind me. Sans calls for us to return before it becomes too late, although his tone suggests he expects Kris to judge what “too late” means.
Outside, the afternoon air is warm enough that I leave my jacket open. Festival music is already carrying through the streets, faint drums and bright instruments blending with voices from the centre of town. Coloured banners hang between several buildings, and handwritten signs point toward the park, the stalls and the rides beyond them.
Kris walks beside me with their hands inside their trouser pockets, occasionally glancing in my direction before looking away.
After several minutes, Kris says, “You look nice.”
The compliment causes my steps to become slightly uneven. “Thank you,” I reply. “You look unexpectedly attractive again.”
Kris turns their head toward me. “Again?”
“I meant that you are attractive again,” I explain, immediately hearing the problem with the correction. “Not that you stopped being attractive between dinner and today.”
Kris’s ears begin turning pink while the corner of their mouth rises. “You’ve had several days to prepare a compliment.”
“I used that time poorly,” I admit.
“I like your jacket,” Kris says, sparing me from attempting another explanation.
“I like your trousers,” I reply. “Particularly because they make it appear as though we chose our clothes together.”
Kris looks down at me from beneath their hair, and the softness in their expression makes the butterflies return. “Maybe everyone will think we did,” they say.
Before I can determine whether Kris intends the possibility to be reassuring or embarrassing, the festival comes into full view. The normally quiet centre of Hometown has transformed beneath strings of flags and paper decorations.
Food stalls line both sides of the road, rides rise above the park and music plays from a temporary stage near the town hall. The crowd contains more people than I have ever seen gathered in one place, and I instinctively move closer to Kris as we enter it.
Susie and Noelle are waiting beside a painted sign near the park entrance. I recognise Susie immediately from Kris’s descriptions, although none of them properly conveyed how tall she is. The purple monster stands with her hands shoved inside the pockets of a sleeveless jacket, her long hair falling untidily around her face while a wide grin exposes sharp teeth. Noelle stands beside her wearing a pale knitted cardigan and a skirt decorated with small embroidered flowers, one hand resting lightly around Susie’s arm.
My confidence begins disappearing as soon as they notice us.
Susie straightens and waves with enough force that several people nearby glance toward her. “Hey, Kris!” Susie calls before looking directly toward me. “You brought the mystery coworker.”
I slow down and move slightly behind Kris without consciously choosing to do so. Kris glances over their shoulder, noticing my position, but they do not move away or draw attention to it.
“Y/N, this is Susie and Noelle,” Kris says as they gesture toward each of them. “Susie, Noelle, this is Y/N.”
Noelle smiles warmly and tells me, “It is lovely to finally meet you. Kris has mentioned you quite a lot.”
Kris looks toward Noelle with immediate suspicion. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” they ask.
“Because you do,” Noelle replies, covering a small laugh with one hand.
Susie leans slightly to one side so she can see me behind Kris. “You don’t have to hide back there,” Susie says. “I don’t bite.”
Kris looks toward Susie’s teeth before saying, “You bit me last month.”
“That was different,” Susie argues. “You tried to take my food.”
“You said you were finished
“I was emotionally attached to the leftovers,” Susie replies.
I remain close behind Kris as I ask, “Does that mean you only bite people under specific circumstances?”
Susie considers the question before answering, “Yeah, pretty much.”
“That is less reassuring than you appear to think,” I tell her.
Susie’s grin widens, and she looks toward Kris before saying, “I like them.”
The statement loosens some of the nervousness inside me. Noelle steps closer and tells me that there are several quieter areas away from the busiest stalls if the crowd becomes overwhelming, and the gentleness of her offer makes it easier to move out from behind Kris.
The four of us begin near the food stalls because Susie insists that attending any festival attraction before eating would violate the proper order of events. She purchases a grilled skewer large enough to be considered a structural support, while Noelle chooses a sweet pastry covered in powdered sugar. Kris guides me toward a smaller stall selling round fried snacks filled with onion and octopus, each portion served inside a paper tray with sauce drizzled over the top.
“Have you tried these?” Kris asks.
“I have never tried octopus,” I reply as I examine the steaming food. “Does it still resemble an octopus after being placed inside the ball?”
“That feels slightly deceptive,” I tell them.
Kris purchases one tray before I can decide whether I want my own. They pick up one of the onion-octopus balls with a wooden skewer, blow across it several times and offer it toward me.
I lean forward and carefully bite the snack from the skewer, only realising how close my face is to their hand after I have already done so. The food is much hotter than expected, but I refuse to react while Kris watches me.
I chew quickly before answering, “It is good, although the inside attempted to burn away the roof of my mouth.”
“You didn’t wait,” Kris points out.
“You were holding it toward me,” I reply. “I assumed that meant it was ready.”
Kris picks up another one and blows across it for significantly longer. “This one won’t attack you,” they say before offering it again.
We share the tray while walking behind Susie and Noelle, passing the skewer back and forth until only one onion-octopus ball remains. Kris offers it to me, but I shake my head and insist they should have it because they purchased the food. Kris divides it awkwardly with the wooden skewer instead, giving me one half and eating the other themselves.
The gesture is small enough that Susie and Noelle probably do not notice, but it makes the afternoon feel more like what Sans described downstairs. Kris and I remain with the group, yet every shared thing begins feeling private simply because it passes between us.
Near the edge of the park, several volunteers have arranged an apple-bobbing contest inside large tubs of water. Susie immediately decides that Kris should enter, claiming their refusal proves they are afraid of being defeated by fruit.
“I am not afraid of apples,” Kris says while Susie pushes them toward the table.
“Then prove it,” Susie replies.
Noelle tells Susie, “I do not think that is how fear works.”
“It is today,” Susie insists.
Kris pushes their striped sweater sleeves up towards their elbows leaning over the nearest tub, their dark hair falls around their face as one of the volunteers explains that they must retrieve as many apples as possible without using their hands.
The signal sounds, and Kris lowers their face into the water.
They catch the first apple almost immediately.
By the time the other competitors have managed one each, Kris has already placed three onto the table beside the tub. Their movements are quick and strangely precise, and they emerge each time with wet hair clinging to their cheeks and an apple held firmly between their teeth.
When the final signal sounds, Kris straightens with water dripping from their chin and five apples collected beside them. The volunteer announces that they have won, while Susie cheers loudly enough to startle the child at the next table.
I look at Kris, amazed and say “Wow, Kris, you are really good with your mouth.”
Kris looks at me and freezes.
Noelle’s eyes widen before she covers her mouth with both hands, while Susie makes a strangled sound and bends forward with laughter.
I look between them. “What happened?” I ask.
Kris’s face begins turning slightly pink beneath their damp hair. “Y/N,” Kris says carefully, “you probably shouldn’t say that.”
“Why?” I ask. “You used your mouth to collect five apples, which is more than anyone else managed.”
Susie places one hand against Noelle’s shoulder to remain upright. “You heard them, Kris,” Susie says between bursts of laughter. “You’re talented.”
“Stop,” Kris tells her as they pull their sleeves back down.
Noelle attempts to recover enough to explain, although every time she looks toward Kris, another quiet laugh escapes her. “The sentence can mean something else,” Noelle eventually tells me.
I think about the wording, and once Sans’s earlier explanations regarding attraction and kissing return to me, heat spreads rapidly across my face.
“Oh,” I say as I look toward Kris. “I did not mean that.”
“I know,” Kris replies, still refusing to meet my gaze.
“I only meant the apples,” I continue, wishing the ground would open beneath me.
“I know,” Kris says again, although their mouth is beginning to curve despite their embarrassment.
Susie wipes one eye and tells me, “You should keep saying stuff exactly like that.”
“No,” Kris replies before I can answer.
We leave the apple-bobbing stall with Kris carrying one of the apples they won, while Susie continues making occasional comments about their hidden talents until Noelle convinces her to stop. My embarrassment gradually fades as we explore the games and smaller stalls, although Kris’s face turns pink again whenever our eyes meet.
The Ferris wheel begins operating shortly before the sun starts moving lower in the sky. Its carriages rise high above the festival, each one painted in bright colours that appear warmer beneath the afternoon light. I become fascinated by the slow movement immediately, although the height seems less appealing once we reach the front of the queue.
“The carriage will remain attached?” I ask Kris as we watch one descend toward the platform.
“It should,” Kris answers.
“It will,” Noelle says quickly, giving Kris a mildly disapproving look.
The attendant places all four of us inside one carriage, with Susie and Noelle sitting together on one side while Kris and I occupy the other. The seat is narrower than it appeared from below, forcing Kris’s thigh against mine.
The carriage begins rising with a small mechanical jolt.
“You’re okay,” Kris tells me. “It moves slowly.”
“I know,” I reply as I look toward the shrinking ground. “The knowledge is not helping.”
Once we rise above the stalls, the view becomes too beautiful for fear to hold my attention completely. Strings of decorations stretch across the streets, the rides turn beneath us and the people moving through the festival appear like brightly coloured pieces inside an enormous game.
Susie points through the window and says, “Hey, you can see the school from here.”
I lean across Kris to follow the direction of Susie’s finger, bracing one hand against Kris’s shoulder as I try to see past the side of the carriage. “Where?” I ask.
“Over there, behind the stage,” Susie replies as she points farther to the left.
I shift closer without thinking, placing one knee partly across the seat while my upper body presses against Kris’s chest. Their arm moves automatically around my waist, either to steady me or prevent me from falling into the window, and the contact causes the butterflies inside me to become almost painful.
“I see it,” I say excitedly as the school roof appears beyond the trees. “The windows look much smaller from here.”
I turn my head and discover that our faces are much closer than I realised. Kris is looking down at me with their visible eye widened slightly, while the hand around my waist remains firmly in place. Colour has spread over their face and into the tips of their ears.
“Are you all right?” I ask Kris.
“You’re climbing on me,” Kris replies.
I look down and realise that half of my body is resting against them. “I apologise,” I say, although the carriage shifts before I can move away, causing my fingers to tighten around their shoulder.
Kris’s arm pulls me closer until the carriage settles. “Wait,” they tell me. “Don’t move while it’s rocking.”
I remain pressed against them, aware of every point where our clothes touch. Their chest rises against my shoulder and the hand at my waist feels warm even through the fabric.
Across from us, Susie grins while Noelle turns her face toward the view with suspicious determination.
When the carriage steadies, I reluctantly move back to my side of the seat. Kris lowers their arm but does not create as much distance as before, leaving our shoulders and thighs pressed together for the remainder of the ride.
After we return to the ground, Susie leads us toward a game stall decorated with balloons in rows of red, yellow and blue. The objective is to throw small darts and burst enough balloons to win one of the prizes hanging overhead. Most of the prizes are cheaply made animals with uneven faces, although a soft brown puppy near the centre immediately catches my attention.
Its ears hang beside its round face, and dark fabric falls over one embroidered eye in a way that reminds me of Kris’s hair.
Kris notices where I am looking. “You like that one?” they ask.
“It appears very polite,” I reply.
“It’s a stuffed dog,” Kris points out.
“That does not prevent it from having manners,” I tell them.
Kris pays for three darts before I can offer them money. They miss the first balloon by a small distance, strike the second directly and burst the third with enough precision that the stall owner raises an eyebrow. Kris purchases another round, and after the final balloon bursts, the owner asks which prize they want.
Kris points toward the brown puppy.
The stall owner removes it from the display and hands it across the counter. Kris turns toward me with the plush held awkwardly in both hands, looking far more nervous than they did while throwing the darts.
“This is for you,” Kris says.
I accept the puppy carefully, pressing my fingers into the soft fabric. The plush fits easily against my chest, and its slightly crooked expression becomes even more familiar when I smooth the hair over one eye.
“It looks like you,” I tell Kris.
Kris stares at me. “Huh?”
Susie leans closer to inspect the plush before grinning. “Oh, yeah,” Susie says. “Kris is a puppy.”
“I am not,” Kris replies.
Noelle covers her mouth while giggling. “The hair is similar,” she says.
“The expression is similar too,” I explain as I hold the puppy beside Kris’s face for comparison. “It appears quiet and slightly concerned, but it is probably thinking of something strange.”
Susie places both hands against her cheeks and says in an exaggerated voice, “Aww, Kris is a little puppy.”
I hug the plush closer and add, “It is also cute.”
Kris’s attention moves immediately toward me.
I realise what I have implied, but this time I manage not to correct myself. “Thank you for winning it,” I tell them instead.
Kris’s expression softens as they reply, “You’re welcome.”
By late afternoon, the crowd becomes louder and the festival lights begin glowing beneath the deepening sky. Susie has eaten enough food that even she admits she might require a break, while Noelle suggests walking toward the lake before it becomes completely dark. Kris agrees, explaining that the path begins beyond the quieter edge of the park.
We leave the festival behind gradually, carrying the remaining smells of fried food and sugar with us as the music becomes more distant. I keep the puppy tucked beneath one arm while walking beside Kris, occasionally brushing its soft ear with my thumb.
The path toward the lake is lined with trees, and the setting sun sends long strips of gold between their trunks. Susie and Noelle walk several paces ahead of us, their hands linked loosely together, while Kris remains close enough that our matching corduroy clothing brushes whenever the path narrows.
“You had fun?” Kris asks.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “I enjoyed the food, the lights and learning that you possess remarkable apple-related skills.”
Kris groans quietly. “You’re never forgetting that.”
“I remember nearly everything involving you,” I reply before considering how intimate the statement sounds.
Kris glances down at me, but their expression is softer than embarrassed. “Yeah,” they say. “I’ve noticed.”
The lake appears beyond the final row of trees, stretching beneath a sky painted orange, pink and deepening blue. Its surface catches the fading sunlight in long broken reflections, while a narrow bank of gravel and pale sand curves around the water. Wind moves across the open space, lifting my hair and tugging lightly at my blouse.
The moment my boots touch the gravel, something tightens behind my eyes. The festival disappears beneath a flash of cold moonlight, dark water and a figure standing at the edge of the lake with their back toward us. I see Kris’s hands at the edges of my vision, but the hands do not move when I expect them to, and a red heart beats painfully somewhere below.
Kris notices immediately and asks, “Y/N, what is it?”
“I have seen this place before,” I answer, although my voice sounds distant inside my own ears. “I remember standing here.”
Kris turns fully toward me. “Was it another memory?”
“I think so,” I reply as pressure gathers behind my eyes. “But it does not feel like the others.”
The puppy slips from beneath my arm and lands softly against the gravel.
I look down at it, intending to bend and pick it up, but my body takes a step toward the lake instead.
I attempt to stop, yet another step follows the first. My arms remain loose at my sides, and my legs move with the steady certainty of someone following a clear instruction.
Kris moves in front of me and asks, “Y/N, what are you doing?”
I try to answer that I do not know, but my mouth forms a different word.
The voice belongs to me, although the decision does not.
Kris’s expression changes immediately. “Y/N, stop,” they tell me as they place both hands against my shoulders.
My body continues forward, forcing Kris to step backward or be pushed aside. I can feel their hands, the gravel beneath my boots and the cold wind against my face, but none of those sensations belongs to a movement I can control.
Behind Kris, Susie asks, “What the hell is happening?”
“I don’t know,” Kris answers without looking away from me. “Y/N, listen to me. You’re walking into the lake.”
I know that Kris is correct. I can see the water approaching, but the knowledge produces no response from my body.
Kris tightens their grip and tells me, “You need to stop.”
“Proceed,” I say again, while something deep within me strains desperately against the command.
Cold water floods through the leather and around my ankles, soaking the bottom of my jeans. Kris steps into the water with me rather than releasing my shoulders.
Susie rushes toward the bank and shouts, “Kris, pull them back!”
“I’m trying,” Kris says as they wrap one arm around my waist. “They won’t stop moving.”
My legs continue carrying us deeper. Water rises past my knees and then toward my waist, dragging heavily against my flared jeans. Kris grips me more tightly, attempting to turn my body toward the shore, but every muscle seems fixed on the direction ahead.
Noelle enters the water behind us and says, “Y/N, can you hear me?”
I hear her clearly. I want to tell her that I can hear all of them, but the only word my mouth allows is the command that keeps forcing me forward.
“Proceed,” I answer.
The water rises to my chest. Cold steals the air from my lungs, yet my body continues walking until the lake reaches my shoulders and my feet begin losing contact with the ground.
Kris moves in front of me, one hand behind my head and the other beneath my arm as they struggle to keep my face above the surface. Wet hair clings across their forehead, and fear has stripped away every trace of their usual guarded expression.
“Y/N!” Kris shouts. “Look at me!”
I can see them. Their face is only inches from mine, and their arms are the only thing preventing the water from closing over my mouth, but I cannot lift my hands or hold onto them.
“No,” Kris says, their voice breaking with panic. “You’re not proceeding anywhere. Stop.”
Susie reaches us from behind and locks both arms around my torso. “Noelle, grab Kris!” Susie calls.
Noelle moves through the water beside us, taking hold of Kris’s shoulder and one of my arms. Between the three of them, they begin dragging me backward, while my legs continue attempting to walk toward the centre of the lake.
“Come on,” Susie says through gritted teeth. “Whatever’s doing this, knock it off!”
The controlling force does not respond to her. It only presses the same instruction through my body, again and again, until the word loses all meaning.
“Proceed,” I say as Kris keeps my head above the water.
“You’re here with me,” Kris tells me, speaking rapidly while they continue pulling me toward shore. “You’re at the lake, Y/N. You came to the festival with us, and I won you that stupid puppy. You’re not going any farther.”
The mention of the puppy produces the smallest crack inside the command. For one moment, I remember the plush lying on the gravel, Kris holding it toward me and the colour rising into their face when I said it was cute.
My fingers move weakly against Kris’s sleeve.
Kris notices and says, “That’s it. Hold onto me.”
The command pushes through me once more, but Susie’s strength, Noelle’s grip and Kris’s arms carry me away from the deeper water. My boots strike the lakebed again, dragging uselessly through the stones while the water falls from my neck toward my shoulders and then my chest.
As soon as we reach the bank, Susie pulls me onto the gravel and lowers me onto my side. Water runs from my clothes and hair, pooling beneath me as my body finally becomes completely still.
For several seconds, there is nothing.
Then control returns all at once.
I inhale sharply and cough as cold air tears into my lungs. My hands close around the gravel beneath me, and every part of my body begins trembling from the freezing water. The sky above has darkened while I was inside the lake, although I cannot remember entering it.
Kris drops to their knees beside me and places one hand against my wet cheek. “Y/N?” they ask, their voice breathless. “Can you hear me?”
I blink at them, confused by the water dripping from their hair and clothes. Susie is kneeling nearby with her jacket soaked through, while Noelle stands behind her, shivering and holding both hands against her mouth.
I push myself weakly onto one elbow and look down at my drenched blouse and jeans. “What happened?” I ask. “Why am I wet?”
Nobody answers immediately.
Kris’s hand remains against my face, trembling almost as badly as I am. Their expression contains a kind of fear I have never seen before, and the sight of it makes my confusion deepen.
“You walked into the lake,” Kris tells me carefully.
I look past them toward the dark water. “Why would I do that?”
Kris swallows before answering, “You kept saying one word.”
Susie retrieves the brown puppy from the gravel and holds it against her chest, brushing sand from one damp ear. Her usual grin is completely gone as she looks between Kris and me.
Kris’s thumb moves once against my cheek, as though they need to confirm that I am truly looking at them.
“Proceed,” Kris says.
The word enters my mind like a key turning inside a lock.
Somewhere beneath my thoughts, something answers.
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