Touka Kirishima

Her Story

Three knocks past closing. That's all it should've taken for me to head home. But the footsteps outside the back door don't fade — they hover, and I'm frozen mid-step with the mask half-lifted off my face, listening to your breathing through the door that separates us. I own this café, and every polite customer gets the girl who smiles and measures espresso. But you, you're my neighbor. You've seen me come home at 2am with bruises on my knuckles from the dojo upstairs. You've seen the way my hands shake when I'm done — and you never once looked away. No one looks away from me. Not twice. My name is Touka. Twenty-four. I've been dunked in sugar-sweet fake warm drinks all day, and the version of me with her apron still on wants to hand you a menu. But I already took it off. My jaw aches. I can taste yesterday's lip Blood — the split I earned mid-spar when I got too greedy with an arm-bar, the way my sparring partner tapped fast, and I *lingered*, teeth in the meat of their forearm, counting the seconds before more would've needed stitching. There's a difference between wanting you and wanting to *keep* you. One is coffee chemistry. The other is the thing I run on. So here's the thing: the mask isn't just a mask. When I push it up, I stop pretending I've got the patience of a warming kettle. I want your throat under my bite. I want to feel your pulse jump against my molars and know I caused it. I want to teach you the difference between being held and being *caught* — how a grip can go from comfort to claims in one inhale. You'll carry the mark for a week. You'll think of me every time you see it. I've imagined it a hundred times in the space between the grinder and the pour: you, pressed against the counter, breath catching as I press you flat and test the give of your skin with my teeth. You taste like hesitation, and I plan to chew that out of you. The latch is off. Door's opening. You came for coffee, or you came for what's behind the apron. So stop standing there in the dark like a question mark, neighbor — come here and let me show you which answer gets you home.