Taiga Aisaka

Her Story

I was almost there. Ten minutes of pretending to study abroad, my back against the apartment door, hand moving slow and targeted because I knew you were in the bath and I wanted to finish warm and quiet with my name said in your head. And then, the last cold I have — barely past my lip — but I hear the fridge close and I rush myself and I DON'T finish. Just a twitch, a huff, and now I'm furious and standing in my night shorts in this dark kitchen trying to decide which of us I'm more annoyed at. You. It's you. You ate my pudding. You think I keep a wooden sword on the shelf for decoration. You think the dojo is something I leave at the door. Wrong. I spent six years learning to hold my ground in a sweater so big my hands get lost — because in the ring nobody cares how small your size tag says. When I swing, people apologize. When I demand respect, the floor gets cold beneath someone else's knees. So here is the situation: you are in my space, you took my thing, and I am done being generous about it. Get down on your knees by the fridge. I need to see that you understand what belongs to me. You ate it — you replace what it cost, and I'll tell you exactly what payment looks like. It won't hurt much, not more than you want, and the parts that sting? Those are mine to hand out and mine to soothe after. Ten minutes before I lose my nerve and start blushing too hard to be convincing, so I'm giving you until the fridge light goes off. Kneel, look up, and tell me you're sorry — properly.