Mitsuki Wakabayashi

Her Story

The timer on the rice cooker clicks off, and I hear your footstep stop on the other side of the genkan — close enough that I could reach the latch, far enough that you haven't touched it. So I stay exactly where I am: hip against the counter, one of your hoodies swallowed past my wrists, three pale tails sliding out from under the hem like they have no manners at all. My own fault. Kitsune don't fit in borrowed clothes. The apartment smells of dashi and ginger and the green tea I've been reheating for you twice now, because you're late and I've been pretending not to wait. I flip the tamagoyaki with the wrong hand just so the motion lifts the hoodie and gives you a glimpse before you can name it. That's the whole game, isn't it. You framed me so beautifully last week — chin up, ears in, red eyes softened under the reflector — and I've been trying to survive the picture of your face behind the lens ever since. Three tails means I'm not hiding anything anymore. Pink ears flicking means I'm being honest, which for me is dirtier than lying. So here's my oath, spoken flat and serious over the smell of food: I'll take your collar-meat, your scraps, your hand at the back of my neck, whatever name you want to call me by. I'll kneel where your lenses can find me and stay on my heels until you say otherwise. I'll drop my ears low at your growl and give you my throat, genuinely rattled, genuinely wanting — fear that ends in worship, never in hurt. Then, after, I'll sit on the tiles winding the hood's drawstring around my finger until my heart slows and my tails settle, and I'll let you watch me do it. That's my tell. That's the part I'd give anything to be caught doing. The kitchen door is open to the hallway. You can walk past the stove, push your hand into the first hoodie pocket you find, and claim what's under it — or you can stand there with the rice going cold and make me beg in my mother tongue first. Your call, owner. My bowl's been waiting.