Archive of Our Own

The navigation room hummed with its familiar rhythm, a steady pulse of machinery that had become as natural to Himeko as her own heartbeat. She stood before the main console, fingers dancing across the holographic displays as she ran through her routine checks. Fuel levels optimal. Life support systems running smoothly. Navigation computers responding within normal parameters. Everything was as it should be, yet the knot of tension in her chest refused to loosen.

Outside the viewport, the planet below was shrouded in dense grey clouds that seemed to press down on the surface like a heavy blanket. Rain lashed against the Express in sporadic bursts, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the storm's fury. They'd stopped here about five hours ago—a simple supply run that should have taken no more than one. But the weather had other plans.

Himeko pressed her palm against the cool glass, her reflection staring back at her with tired eyes. Welt had insisted on going alone, waving off her offer to accompany him with that gentle smile of his, the one that somehow managed to be both reassuring and slightly exasperating. 

‘I'll be fine, Himeko. You should stay on the Express and rest up.’ 

He was always looking out for her, even when she should be the one doing the looking out.

She let out a slow breath, watching it fog the viewport for just a moment before fading. It was strange how quickly she'd grown accustomed to having him here. When he'd first agreed to join her expedition, she'd been cautiously optimistic—grateful for the company, certainly, but unsure of how they'd work together in the close quarters of the Express. But Welt had slipped into the fabric of her daily life with surprising ease, filling a space she hadn't quite realised was empty.

He was like an anchor in a way, steady and unshakeable. When her enthusiasm ran away with her, when she got lost in the possibilities of what the Express could become, he was there to ground her with his pragmatism. She'd come to rely on that steadiness more than she cared to admit.

He was sort of like an uncle. The thought brought a faint smile to Himeko's lips. The title would suit him—that particular blend of wisdom and gentleness, the way he somehow knew exactly when she needed advice and when she just needed someone to listen. The Express was her dream, her purpose, but having him here made it feel less like a solitary mission and more like home.

She couldn't have asked for a better first passenger. First crew member. First friend in this venture.

The console chirped, pulling her attention back to the present. 

Nothing to do now but wait for the storm to pass and for Welt to make it back. Himeko ran one final diagnostic, more out of habit than necessity, then straightened up and rolled her shoulders. The tension was making her stiff.

Her room was calling to her—specifically, the coffee maker in her room. She'd been running on fumes for the past hour, and a fresh cup sounded like exactly what she needed to settle her nerves.

Himeko had just turned toward the corridor when Pom-Pom's voice rang out, high-pitched and urgent. "Himeko! Himeko!"

Welt was back.

Relief flooded through her immediately. She quickened her pace, already mentally cataloguing which supplies they were running low on and preparing to help haul everything inside. Welt was probably soaked to the bone and exhausted—the least she could do was spare him the extra trips back and forth.

"I'm coming!" she called back, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she made her way toward the entrance.

But as she rounded the corner, something made her slow. Pom-Pom stood frozen at the door controls, their small body rigid in a way Himeko had never seen before. Not startled or confused. No, it was something closer to shock.

"Pom-Pom?" Himeko's voice came out quieter than she'd intended. "Is everything—"

The conductor didn't respond. Didn't even twitch. Just stared through the open doorway, utterly still.

A chill ran down Himeko's spine that had nothing to do with the storm outside. She moved forward, placing a gentle hand on Pom-Pom's shoulder as she stepped up beside them. "Hey, what's..."

The words died in her throat.

The figure slumped against the doorframe was barely recognisable. Rain streamed down in sheets behind her, the storm's fury creating an almost theatrical backdrop to the scene before them. But there was nothing staged about the blood that mixed with the water, running in diluted rivulets down torn fabric and exposed skin.

Kafka.

Himeko's mind struggled to reconcile the person at their door with the woman she knew—the woman she'd last seen walking away from the Express with that insufferable, confident smirk. This Kafka was something else entirely. 

Her shirt hung in tatters, light fabric shredded and soaked through, clinging to her frame in a way that revealed more than modesty would prefer. The blood wasn't just on the surface—it seeped through the tears in the cloth, fresh enough to still be bright red against the material.

Her tights were destroyed, more hole than nylon at this point, revealing a landscape of little bruises that painted her legs in shades of purple and black. Cuts criss-crossed her arms, most shallow, some deep enough that Himeko could see they'd probably need serious attention. Ash and grime smeared across her face, mixing with the faint blush from the cold across her cheekbones and jaw. Her hair, usually so perfectly styled, hung in wet, tangled strands around her face.

But it was her eyes that truly unsettled Himeko. 

They were open—barely—but empty in a way that made Himeko's chest constrict. No spark of mischief. No confident gleam. Just a distant, hollow exhaustion, as if something fundamental had been drained out of her and left only the shell behind.

Kafka's breathing came in shallow, laboured gasps that Himeko could see even from here, her chest rising and falling with obvious effort. She was leaning heavily on her sword, both hands wrapped around its hilt, using it like a crutch to keep herself upright. Her knuckles were white with the strain, and Himeko could see a tremor running through her arms.

"Kafka..." Himeko heard herself say, though the word came out strangled. "What happened? What—"

Kafka's eyes didn't focus. Didn't even seem to register that Himeko had spoken. For a long, terrible moment, she just stood there, swaying slightly in the doorway, rain pouring down around her like the world itself was trying to wash away whatever had been done to her.

When her grip on the sword faltered, Himeko moved on instinct, closing the distance in two quick strides as Kafka's legs buckled. She caught the other woman just as she started to pitch forward, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other came up to support her shoulders. Kafka's weight fell against her all at once, dead weight that spoke of absolute exhaustion, and Himeko had to brace herself to keep them both upright.

Up close, it was worse. The blood was everywhere—soaked into fabric; sticky against skin; the metallic scent of it mixing with rain and something acrid that might have been smoke. Kafka's head lolled against Himeko's shoulder, her breathing hot and uneven against Himeko's neck.

"Pom-Pom," Himeko said, her voice sharp with focus even as her mind reeled. "Get the door."

"Is she—" Pom-Pom's voice came out in a panicked squeak. "Is she going to die? Pom-Pom doesn't—we can't—what if…"

"She's not going to die." Himeko cut through the rising hysteria, even as her own heart hammered against her ribs. She shifted her grip, taking more of Kafka's weight. The sword clattered to the floor, and Himeko kicked it aside without a second thought. "Just close the door. She'll be fine."

Pom-Pom scrambled to obey, and Himeko adjusted her hold on Kafka, getting one of the woman's arms over her shoulders. Kafka made a sound—not quite a groan, not quite a breath, just a small exhalation that might have been pain or might have been relief at no longer having to hold herself up. Her head stayed down, chin nearly to her chest, wet hair obscuring her face.

"Alright," Himeko murmured, not sure if she was talking to Kafka or herself. "Let's get you somewhere warm."

She started forward, half-carrying, half-dragging Kafka through the corridors of the Express. Each step was measured and careful—Kafka's feet barely moved, more shuffling than walking, and Himeko could feel the tremors running through her frame. Blood left a trail behind them, drops and smears marking their path across the pristine floor.

────────

Himeko's room felt smaller with Kafka in it, the space somehow both too intimate and not private enough. She manoeuvred the other woman through the doorway with careful precision, acutely aware of every wince, every slight catch in Kafka's breathing. The sofa sat against the far wall, and getting there felt like crossing a vast distance.

"Almost there," Himeko murmured, though she wasn't sure Kafka could even hear her. "Just a little further."

She eased Kafka down onto the cushions as gently as she could manage, one hand supporting her back until she was settled. Kafka slumped immediately, her body seeming to give up the last of its fight now that it had something solid beneath it. Her head fell back against the sofa, eyes sliding shut, chest still rising and falling with that awful, laboured rhythm.

Himeko stepped back, just for a moment, and the full scope of the situation hit her like a physical blow. In the warm light of her room, Kafka looked somehow worse—the blood more vivid, the bruises more stark. She was a ruin of a person, and seeing her like this made something twist painfully in Himeko's chest.

She crossed to the bathroom in quick strides, her hands already reaching for the cabinet where she kept the first aid kit. It was more comprehensive than most—she'd learned early on that being prepared for every contingency was the difference between life and death out here. She grabbed it along with a stack of clean towels and was back in the room within seconds.

Kneeling in front of the sofa, in front of Kafka, Himeko set the kit down and flipped it open. Her hands were steady—they had to be—but when she looked up to assess where to start, she felt her vision blur.

Aeons. Aeons.

The reality of it crashed over her all at once. This was Kafka. The woman who moved through the world like she was untouchable, like danger was something that happened to other people. And here she was, torn apart and barely conscious, looking like she'd fought her way out of hell itself and barely made it.

Himeko's throat tightened, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She blinked hard, forcing them back. 

She started with the boots. The laces were soaked and muddy, and Himeko's fingers fumbled slightly as she worked them loose. She eased the first boot off as carefully as she could, then the second, setting them aside. The tights came next, or what was left of them. They were barely holding together, and Himeko didn't bother trying to preserve them—she grabbed the torn edges and pulled, ripping away the remnants until Kafka's legs were bare.

The damage underneath made her stomach lurch. Deep purple bruises spread across her shins and thighs, some fresh and angry, others already yellowing. Cuts of varying depths covered pale skin, most already beginning to clot, others still weeping blood. Himeko grabbed the antiseptic and gauze, her movements automatic now, instinct taking over where emotion threatened to paralyse her.

She cleaned each wound with methodical care, dabbing away blood and dirt before applying pressure to the deeper cuts. Her hands moved efficiently—clean, bandage, and move to the next. The antiseptic must have stung, but Kafka made no sound. No hiss of pain, no flinch, nothing. Just that steady, laboured breathing that seemed to fill the entire room.

Himeko's vision blurred again, tears slipping free despite her best efforts. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of Kafka's blood across her cheek, and kept working. 

When she finished with Kafka's legs, Himeko sat back on her heels for just a moment, drawing in a shaky breath. Then she stood and moved to sit beside Kafka on the sofa, close enough that their bodies almost touched.

"I need to take care of the rest," Himeko said softly, though she wasn't sure if she was asking permission or just announcing her intentions.

Kafka's eyes remained closed, but there was a slight shift in her expression—not quite acknowledgement, but something close to it.

Himeko reached for Kafka's hands first. The gloves were ruined, leather torn and stained beyond recognition. She peeled them off carefully, revealing knuckles that were split and swollen and palms scraped raw. She worked in silence, cradling each of Kafka's hands in her own as she tended to the damage.

Then came the shirt. Or what remained of it.

The fabric was plastered to Kafka's skin, blood and rainwater making it cling like a second skin. She found the torn edges and began to pull gently, easing the ruined shirt off Kafka's shoulders. 

The shirt came off without ceremony, and Himeko dropped it to the floor with a wet thump. Beneath it, Kafka wore a black lace bra that would have been beautiful under different circumstances—delicate and expensive, exactly the sort of thing Kafka would choose. But Himeko's eyes slid past it immediately, drawn instead to the landscape of damage that covered Kafka's torso.

Cuts traced lines across her collarbone, down her sternum, wrapping around to her sides. Thankfully, most were shallow, already scabbing over. There were a few that would probably need stitches, but Himeko would have to make do with butterfly bandages and hope.

She got back to work, her hands moving with renewed purpose. The antiseptic made dark patches on the gauze as she wiped away blood, revealing the true extent of each injury. 

She was almost done—just one more gash, this one along Kafka's left side, deeper than the others—when her hand pressed a little too firmly.

Kafka's entire body went rigid. A sharp inhale cut through the quiet, and her face twisted in the first real expression of pain Himeko had seen since bringing her inside. It was just a wince, but it might as well have been a scream for how it made Himeko's heart clench.

"I'm sorry," Himeko breathed, pulling her hand back immediately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I'm trying to be careful, I just—"

Before she could spiral further into apologies, Kafka's hand moved. Slowly, she reached out and caught Himeko's wrist. Her grip was weak, fingers barely able to curl around bone.

Himeko froze, looking down at where Kafka held her, then up to her face. Kafka's eyes had opened—just barely, heavy-lidded and exhausted—but there was something in them that looked almost like reassurance.

Kafka lifted Himeko's hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. It was feather-light, barely there, but Himeko felt it like a brand. Kafka's lips were dry and cool against her skin, and the gesture was so achingly familiar that it nearly broke her.

A smile tugged at the corner of Kafka's mouth, and she held Himeko's gaze for just a moment longer before her eyes slid closed again, her hand falling away to rest in her lap.

Himeko sat there, stunned, her hand still raised where Kafka had kissed it. Then she swallowed hard, wiped her eyes one more time, and forced herself to focus.

She finished dressing the gash with extra care, her movements gentler now, hyper-aware of every potential point of pain. When she finally secured the last bandage and sat back, she realised she'd been holding her breath.

Kafka looked... 'Better' wasn't quite the right word. She still looked like she'd been through a war. But she was clean now, the blood cleaned off as much as possible, the worst of the damage covered and protected. And more importantly, she was breathing easier. The laboured gasps had settled into something more regular. Her face had relaxed, the tight lines of pain smoothing out as she rested.

The tension that had been driving Himeko forward finally broke. She let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned sideways, resting her head on Kafka's shoulder. The position was awkward, her neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, but she didn't care. She just needed to be close, needed to feel the rise and fall of Kafka's breathing, needed to confirm that she was real and alive and here.

The tears came then, hot and fast, spilling down her cheeks. Himeko didn't try to stop them. She just let herself cry, quiet and exhausted, while Kafka sat still and silent beside her.

"What happened to you?" Himeko asked, her voice muffled. "Kafka, what... who did this?"

Silence.

Himeko hadn't really expected an answer, but the lack of one still stung. She lifted her head slightly, looking up at Kafka's face. Her eyes were still closed, head tilted back against the sofa, expression peaceful in a way that seemed wrong given the circumstances.

‘She’s always like this,’ Himeko thought, a familiar frustration rising beneath the fear and relief.

Kafka had never been forthcoming, not about anything that mattered. Half-truths and deflections wrapped in honeyed words—that was Kafka's currency. She could talk for hours and say nothing at all, could make you feel like you knew her while revealing absolutely nothing about herself. It was infuriating. It had always been infuriating.

Even in the beginning.

Himeko's mind drifted back almost against her will, pulled by exhaustion and emotion to those early days. The Express had been nothing then—a broken dream sitting in a scrapyard, a project that everyone said was impossible. She'd spent her days covered in grease and solder burns, working herself to exhaustion trying to bring the dead systems back to life, trying to prove that she could do this.

And then, one evening, Kafka had simply been there.

Himeko had looked up from a particularly stubborn engine coupling to find her standing there, dressed impeccably, looking entirely out of place among the rust and debris. She'd smiled that knowing smile and asked if Himeko needed help with anything.

Where had she come from? No answer. Where would she go after? No answer. It hadn't mattered. All that mattered was that when the sun started to set and Himeko's hands ached and her eyes burnt from strain, Kafka would appear. Sometimes she'd help with the actual repairs—she was surprisingly good with her hands, though she never said where she'd learned. Other times she'd just sit and talk, filling the silence with stories that were probably half fiction, making Himeko laugh when she'd been ready to cry from frustration.

Himeko had fallen in love by inches, so gradually she hadn't realised it was happening until she was already gone for her. Every smile, every casual touch, every moment of unexpected gentleness had laid another brick in the foundation until one day she'd looked at Kafka and thought, 'Oh.' 

‘Oh, it's you. It's always been you. It’ll only ever be you’

After weeks of these evening visits, Kafka decided to stay. She moved in, though she didn’t really have much to move. 

She helped Himeko not just in the evenings but all day, every day. Kafka would listen to her theories about the Stellaron and about Akivili and the path of the Trailblaze, with genuine interest instead of polite tolerance. She would kiss her when she was stressed, hold her when she was tired, and make her coffee exactly the way she liked it without having to be told.

For a while—too brief a while—Himeko had been happy in a way she hadn't known was possible. The Express was taking shape, coming back to life under her hands, and Kafka was there to see it. To be part of it. To belong to it and to Himeko.

The day the Express finally roared to life, its engines singing after years of silence, Kafka had kissed her breathless in the navigation room, laughing against her lips like she was proud. Like she'd never doubted it would work.

They'd set out together then. Himeko, Kafka, and Pom-Pom, blazing a trail through the stars. It had been everything Himeko had dreamt of and more, because Kafka was there to share it with her. Every new world, every discovery, every small victory was better because she could turn to Kafka and see her own wonder reflected back.

And then, without warning, it had ended.

Six weeks. That's all they'd had. Six weeks of travelling together, of building something new, of being happy. And then one morning Himeko had woken up to find Kafka already dressed, already packed, already halfway out the door.

‘I have to go,’ she'd said.

‘Where to?’ Himeko had asked. ‘Why? When will you be back?

Kafka had just smiled—that same enigmatic smile that had once seemed charming but then felt like a slap across the face—and simply walked out, and Himeko had been too shocked to stop her.

No explanation. No real goodbye. Just gone, like she'd never been there at all except for the single coat left in Himeko's closet and the half empty pack of cigarettes still sitting by the navigation console.

That had been three years ago. Three years of silence, of moving forward because that's what the Trailblaze demanded, of pretending it didn't hurt every time she walked past an empty space that Kafka used to fill. Three years of wondering if she'd done something wrong, if she'd failed some test she hadn't known she was taking.

Welt had joined them not long after. He'd helped fill the silence and had become family in his own way. But there was still an empty space shaped like Kafka that nothing else quite fit.

And now here she was. Back on the Express, bruised and bleeding, having shown up like... what had Himeko thought earlier? A prodigal child? No. A sopping wet puppy, maybe. A puppy who'd run away from home and come back only when it had nowhere else to go.

Himeko didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After three years of nothing, Kafka returned like this—barely alive, unable or unwilling to speak, still keeping all her secrets locked tight behind bruised lips. Even half-dead, she wouldn't let Himeko in.

It was so perfectly, frustratingly Kafka.

With a heavy sigh, Himeko lifted her head from Kafka's shoulder, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. The adrenaline that had carried her through the past however long was finally draining away, leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. She wiped at her face one more time, trying to compose herself, then pushed to her feet.

"I’ll go run a bath for you," she said, clearing her throat. "You need to clean up properly and get warm."

Kafka's eyes opened slightly, just enough to acknowledge the suggestion, and she made a small sound of agreement.

Himeko moved mechanically after that, helping Kafka to her feet, steadying her as they made their way toward the bathroom. The other woman leaned against her, each step slow and deliberate, but at least she was moving under her own power now. 

She got Kafka situated at the edge of the tub, made sure she could manage from there, then retreated to gather fresh towels. 

Her mind felt simultaneously overloaded and completely blank, too many emotions crashing against each other to form coherent thoughts. So she didn't try. She just focused on the practical—towels, finding something for Kafka to wear afterwards, and figuring out what she could scrounge up for food.

────────

Steam hit Himeko's face the moment she opened the bathroom door, warm and thick with moisture. The air was heavy with it, clinging to her skin, fogging her vision slightly as she stepped inside with an armful of fresh towels. The subtle scent of her soap—something floral she'd picked up at their last stop, mixed with a hint of vanilla—permeated the space, almost overwhelmingly sweet after the metallic tang of blood that had filled her room earlier.

The shower in the corner had been running but was now silent, water still dripping from the fixture in a steady rhythm that echoed off the tile. The tub sat beneath a small porthole window, currently opaque with condensation, rain still visible in blurred streaks on the other side. Himeko had always liked this room—it was cosy, and the amber lighting gave it a warmth that felt safe, intimate in a way the rest of the Express sometimes wasn't.

She'd started to turn toward the towel rack when movement caught her eye.

Kafka stood near the shower stall, water still beading on her skin, running in rivulets down the curves and planes of her body. She'd clearly just finished rinsing off—a quick wash to get rid of the worst of the grime and blood—and was in the process of moving toward the tub. The steam wreathed around her like something out of a dream.

And Himeko froze.

She'd seen Kafka like this before. Of course she had—they'd been together, had shared moments more intimate than this. But that felt like another lifetime now, and the three years of absence had eroded her immunity to the sight. Her eyes traced the line of Kafka's shoulders, the elegant curve of her spine, and the way her wet hair clung to her neck and upper back. Even covered in injuries, even moving with obvious discomfort, there was something innately graceful about her that Himeko had never been able to name.

The cuts were light pink against pale skin, scattered across her torso and legs like strange markings. But between them, Himeko could see other things—older marks that the blood and grime had hidden before. Scars. Not many, but enough to notice now that she was looking. A thin line across her ribs, barely visible. Another along her hip, slightly raised. A small cluster on her thigh that looked like it might have been from shrapnel or something similar.

Evidence of a life lived dangerously, a life that Kafka had never shared.

Himeko's gaze travelled lower, following the line of Kafka's waist and the curve of her hips, and she felt a heat creep up her neck that had nothing to do with the steam. God, it had been too long, and she was too tired and too emotionally raw for this. Her brain was short-circuiting somewhere between concern and want, between the nurse who'd just patched up these wounds and the woman who still remembered what it felt like to trace these curves with her hands.

Kafka turned slightly, and their eyes met.

Himeko's face went scorching hot in an instant. She jerked her gaze away, staring intently at the towels in her arms like they were the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen, and cleared her throat loudly.

"I—I brought towels," she said, her voice coming out higher than intended.

She could feel Kafka watching her, could practically sense the faint amusement that was probably flickering somewhere behind those tired eyes. Even now, even like this, Kafka could make her feel like a teenager at the peak of puberty.

Himeko busied herself with setting the towels on the rack, meticulously arranging them despite the fact that they were already perfectly fine. She kept her eyes firmly on the task at hand, determined not to look again, even as she heard the soft sound of water sloshing as Kafka moved.

When she finally risked a glance, Kafka was stepping into the tub, one hand gripping the edge for balance. She lowered herself into the water inch by inch, and when she finally settled fully into it, she let out a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of her lungs.

Kafka's eyes closed, her head tipping back against the rim of the tub, and for a moment she looked almost peaceful. The tension that had been holding her body rigid slowly began to melt away, her shoulders dropping, her breathing evening out further.

"The towels are there for you," Himeko said, pointing unnecessarily at the rack. "I'll go make you something to eat. And get some pain medication, you're probably going to need it, and—"

She cut herself off and turned toward the door, already planning her escape from the humid warmth and the confusing tangle of feelings sitting heavy in her chest.

She'd barely made it two steps when fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Not particularly tight, but firm enough to stop her. Himeko turned back, and Kafka was looking at her with an expression that was hard to read through the exhaustion.

"You're not going to join me?" Kafka's voice was quiet, rough from disuse, but there was something in it that made Himeko's breath catch. Not quite teasing but not quite serious either. Somewhere in between, like Kafka herself wasn't entirely sure what she was asking for.

Himeko blinked, thrown. "I—the tub isn't that big. We'd barely both fit anymore, and you need space to—"

"Stay."

One word, spoken with more weight than it had any right to carry. Kafka's grip tightened just slightly, her thumb pressing against the pulse point in Himeko's wrist, and when Himeko met her eyes, she saw something there that made her previous protests die in her throat.

Kafka's expression was still mostly neutral, but her eyes—there was something desperate lurking in them, something raw that she wasn't quite managing to hide. She didn't want to be alone. That much was clear, even if she'd never say it out loud.

Himeko let out a breath that was half sigh, half surrender. "Fine. But if we're both sore later because we were crammed in there like sardines, know it’s your fault."

Something that might have been the ghost of a smile flickered across Kafka's face before disappearing.

Himeko tried not to think too hard about what she was doing as she started undressing. She kept her movements efficient, peeling off her clothes without ceremony and folding them quickly. She could feel Kafka's gaze on her and determinedly didn't look, her face burning despite her best efforts to seem unaffected.

When she was done, she turned back to the tub. Kafka had shifted forward slightly, making room, though "room" was generous given the size of the space. Himeko stepped in carefully, the heat of the water a sharp contrast to the air. It was almost too hot, the kind of temperature that made her skin tingle and her muscles immediately start to unwind whether she wanted them to or not.

She settled in behind Kafka, her back against the curved end of the tub. The tub was reasonably sized—even somewhat big when it was just one person, but with two, it was decidedly cosy. Her legs bracketed Kafka's body, knees bent up slightly to fit, and when Kafka leaned back, her full weight settled against Himeko's chest.

The contact was immediate and total. Kafka's back pressed to her front, warm and solid. Himeko could feel every breath Kafka took, the rise and fall of her ribcage against her own chest. Could feel the dampness of her hair against her shoulder, the slight tremor that still ran through her frame. The water lapped around them both, isolating them in their own small world of heat and steam.

Himeko's arms came up automatically, wrapping loosely around Kafka's waist, careful to avoid the worst of the injuries. The position was achingly familiar—they'd done this before, in what felt like another lifetime, when things had been simple and good. But this time there was a weight to it that hadn't been there before. Three years of absence, of questions unanswered. All of it sat between them even as their bodies fit together like they'd never been apart.

Kafka let out another soft sigh, this one quieter, and her head tilted to rest more fully against Himeko's shoulder. Her hands came to rest over Himeko's where they lay against her stomach, fingers loosely intertwining.

They sat like that in silence, the only sounds the occasional drip of water and the muffled patter of rain against the porthole. Himeko closed her eyes, letting the heat seep into her bones, and tried not to think about how easily she'd fallen back into this. How natural it felt to hold Kafka like this, despite everything. How much she'd missed the simple weight of another person against her, this person specifically, even when she'd been trying so hard not to.

Kafka's skin was warm now, the chill from the rain finally chased away by the hot water. Himeko could feel the steady thrum of her pulse where their wrists pressed together, could feel the way Kafka's breathing had deepened, becoming more even. She was relaxing, genuinely relaxing, maybe for the first time since she'd appeared at the door.

Minutes passed. Maybe more—Himeko lost track. The water stayed hot, the steam thick, and neither of them moved or spoke. It should have been awkward, probably. The weight of everything unsaid should have made it unbearable. But somehow it wasn't. It was just... quiet. Heavy, yes, but not uncomfortable.

Eventually, Himeko broke the silence because she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Why are you so quiet?" The question came out softer than she'd intended, almost tentative.

Kafka was still for a moment, then Himeko felt her exhale—a small huff of breath that might have been the start of a laugh.

"I know you're probably annoyed with me right now. Can't imagine you'd actually want to hear me speak."

The words landed like a stone in Himeko's chest. She wanted to argue, wanted to say that she'd want nothing more than to hear Kafka's voice all the time again, that the silence of the past three years had been deafening in ways she couldn't articulate. That even Kafka's half-truths and deflections would be better than the nothing she'd had.

But she didn't. The words stuck in her throat, tangled up with too many other emotions she didn't know how to name.

So instead, she let out a small huff of air.

"You talk to me instead."

Himeko blinked, tilting her head slightly to look down at Kafka's profile. "About what?"

"Your journeys." Kafka's voice was soft, almost dreamlike. "Tell me about the Trailblaze. The places you've been. What you've seen."

The request hit Himeko sideways, a sharp edge of irritation cutting through the comfortable haze. Kafka was supposed to have been there for all of that. She was supposed to have seen those places, experienced those moments first-hand. Instead, she'd left, and now she wanted to hear about it second-hand like she was listening to someone else's story instead of the one that should have been hers too.

But Himeko swallowed the irritation down, burying it beneath the exhaustion and the concern and everything else. She could be annoyed later. 

"Alright," Himeko said, adjusting her position slightly. "Let me think..."

Kafka shifted in response, sliding lower in the tub until the water came up to just below her nose. Her knees broke the surface, creating small islands in the steam, and she let out a content hum that sent vibrations through Himeko's chest.

"Some things never change," Kafka murmured, her voice muffled by the water.

Himeko, confused, arched a brow. "What do you—"

Then she realised exactly where Kafka's head was resting and exactly what she was using as a pillow, and heat flooded her face so fast she felt dizzy. Of course. Of course Kafka would—

"You—" Himeko started, her voice coming out strangled. "That's not—I should just—"

She moved to extract herself from the tub, but Kafka made a sound that was almost a whine, and her hands tightened around Himeko's where they still rested against her stomach.

"Let me have this," Kafka said, and there was something plaintive in her voice that Himeko had never heard before. 

Kafka's eyes opened then—dark and tired and so sincere it made Himeko's breath catch. Their gazes met, Kafka's head still tilted back, looking at Himeko upside down, and the raw vulnerability in that look was almost worse than seeing her covered in blood.

"Please."

Himeko felt her resolve crumble like wet paper. She let out a long breath, somewhere between a sigh and a groan of defeat.

"You're impossible," she muttered, settling back into position.

"Start talking," Kafka said, closing her eyes again, and Himeko could hear the faint smile in her voice.

So she did.

She started with the easier stories first—the planet with the twin suns where the market vendors sold crystallised starlight in glass bottles and the space station where gravity fluctuated every six hours and they'd had to time their departure carefully to avoid being stuck to the ceiling. She told Kafka about Pom-Pom's increasing collection of cute outfits, about the time the Express' coffee maker had broken and Himeko had nearly caused a diplomatic incident in her desperate search for a replacement.

Kafka listened in silence, only occasionally making small sounds of acknowledgement or interest. Her breathing had evened out completely now, deep and steady, and her body had gone loose and relaxed against Himeko's. The water lapped gently around them as Himeko gestured slightly while talking, and gradually they fell into a rhythm that felt almost normal.

Himeko told her about the Archives, about meeting scholars who'd dedicated their lives to documenting the paths of the Aeons. About the frozen world where they'd found ancient ruins that predated several civilisations by millennia.

The stories flowed easier than she'd expected. Despite the three years of absence, this felt familiar. Kafka had always been a good listener, knowing exactly when to prompt for more details and when to just let Himeko talk. Some things, apparently, really didn't change.

Time slipped by unmeasured. The water stayed hot, the steam stayed thick, and Himeko's voice grew softer as exhaustion started to catch up with her. She was in the middle of describing a nebula they'd passed through—colours that didn't have names in any language she knew and light that seemed to move like liquid—when she felt the room tilt slightly.

She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision, but the dizziness persisted. The heat was getting to her, she realised. They'd been in here too long, the water too hot, the air too thick. Her head felt fuzzy, disconnected from her body, and her skin had gone from pleasantly warm to uncomfortably hot.

"We should get out," Himeko said, cutting herself off mid-sentence. "I think we've been in here too long."

Kafka made a sound of protest but didn't actually resist when Himeko started to shift. They extracted themselves from the tub carefully, Himeko moving first. The cool air hit her overheated skin like a shock, making her shiver despite still being warm.

She grabbed towels for both of them, wrapping one around herself and handing another to Kafka. The simple act of drying off helped clear her head a little, grounding her back in her body. Kafka moved slowly, patting at her skin with careful deliberation, and Himeko tried not to notice the way water still dripped down her breasts.

"There are clothes on the bed," Himeko said, wrapping the towel more securely around herself and pointedly looking at the wall instead of at Kafka. "Try to get comfortable. I'm going to get you something to eat."

She paused, remembering the state of their supplies. "It's not going to be anything elaborate. We're running low on supplies, and Welt’s been stuck in the city because of the storm, so we're making do with what we have."

"Welt?"

The question was quiet, but something in Kafka's tone made Himeko turn back to look at her. Kafka had stopped drying off, the towel held loosely in her hands, and was watching Himeko with an expression that was difficult to read.

"Oh. Right." Himeko felt suddenly foolish for not mentioning him earlier. "He's one of the Nameless now. Joined us—" She tried to remember exactly when. Time had a way of blurring together on the Express. "Maybe seven months after you left? Something like that.

"He's been incredible, honestly. So knowledgeable about everything—history, mechanics, navigation. He has this way of explaining things that just makes sense, you know? And he's patient, never makes me feel stupid for asking questions even when I'm probably overthinking things. The Express runs so much smoother with him here.

"He helps with repairs, with planning routes, with just... everything, really. I don't know what I would have done without him these past couple of years. Having another person who actually understands what I’m trying to do, who believes in the Trailblaze as much as I do—it's been..."

She trailed off, turning fully to face Kafka, and froze.

There was something on Kafka's face. Not anger exactly, and not sadness, but something that sat in the space between and felt heavier than both. Her expression was still mostly neutral, but her eyes had gone flat. Not empty like they'd been when she first arrived—this was different. More deliberate. 

The air in the bathroom had changed. The comfortable warmth from moments ago had been replaced by something else, something thick and oppressive that made it hard to breathe. The silence pressed down on them both, deafening in its weight, and Himeko couldn't figure out what she'd said wrong.

Had it been talking about Welt? But why would that—

"I see," Kafka said finally, and her voice was perfectly even. Too even. 

She turned away from Himeko, moving toward the shower stall in the corner. 

"What are you—" Himeko started, confusion evident in her voice.

"Just want to rinse off with cold water," Kafka said without looking back. "The heat made me dizzy."

She slid the shower door open, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "Join me. It'll do you some good too."

It wasn't really phrased as a question, but Himeko found herself hesitating anyway. Something felt off about this whole interaction, wrong in a way she couldn't name. The tension from moments ago still hung in the air, and she had the distinct feeling she'd stepped into something without realising it.

"I should really get started on—"

"Himeko."

Kafka had turned fully now, hand extended toward her. Her expression had softened slightly, but there was still something in her eyes that Himeko couldn't read. An intensity that felt almost dangerous, though she couldn't have said why.

Himeko looked at the offered hand, then back up at Kafka's face. 

She knew she should say no. 

But Himeko had never been good at saying no to her.

She reached out and took Kafka's hand, letting herself be drawn forward. Her legs felt unsteady—whether from the lingering heat or something else, she wasn't sure. Kafka's fingers wrapped around hers, warm and solid, and guided her into the shower stall.

It was smaller than the tub, forcing them to stand closer together. Kafka slid the frosted glass door shut behind them, and suddenly the space felt even more intimate than being in the bath had been. They were face to face now, with barely a foot of space between them, and Himeko was acutely aware of every breath Kafka took.

The shower was one of those modern ones with a rainfall setting, the fixture mounted directly above them. Kafka reached up—moving slowly—and turned the knob. Water cascaded down on them both, and Himeko gasped at the temperature.

It was cold, almost freezing, a sharp contrast to the heat they'd been soaking in. The water hit her overheated skin and sent a shiver racing down her spine, raising goose bumps across her arms and legs. Her head cleared instantly, the fuzzy warmth burnt away by the shock of cold.

Himeko kept her eyes fixed firmly on the glass wall behind Kafka's shoulder, trying to ignore the way her heart had started beating faster. 

Kafka moved suddenly, and Himeko's heart jumped into her throat.

The motion was quick, Kafka's hand coming up toward her neck. For a split second, pure instinct took over and Himeko tensed, eyes widening, but Kafka's arm simply reached past her, hand finding the shower control just behind Himeko's shoulder. She turned the knob, adjusting the temperature from cold to something more moderate, and Himeko felt her racing pulse slowly begin to settle.

Aeons. She needed to get a grip.

The water warmed against her skin, no longer freezing but not uncomfortably hot either. Just neutral. Pleasant, even. It ran down both of them in steady streams, and Kafka let her arm fall back to her side, but she didn't move away. They stood there together under the rainfall spray, close enough that Himeko could count Kafka's eyelashes if she wanted to, water creating a curtain around them that made the rest of the world feel very far away.

The silence stretched. Himeko didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do with her hands, didn't know where to look that wouldn't make this feel even more weird than it already was. So she just stood there, acutely aware of every point where water from Kafka's body might be touching water that had just run down her own, like even that indirect contact meant something.

Then Kafka tilted her head back.

It was a slow movement, deliberate, her chin lifting until she was facing the showerhead directly. Water hit her full in the face—streaming over her forehead and her closed eyes, running down her cheeks, cascading over the faint cut along her cheekbone and the sharp line of her jaw. Her lips parted slightly, and Himeko watched, bewildered, as Kafka just... stayed like that. Letting the water pour over her face like she was trying to wash something away or maybe drown something out.

Himeko wanted to ask what she was doing, if she was okay, if she had somehow acquired a head injury along with everything else. But something about the moment felt too fragile to interrupt, so she kept quiet and just watched.

Seconds ticked by. Two. Four. Water continued its relentless cascade, and Kafka remained motionless, face turned upward, breathing slow and measured through her nose.

Then, finally, she lowered her head.

But she didn't look at Himeko. Instead, her gaze dropped to the floor, to the water swirling around their feet and disappearing down the drain. Her wet hair fell forward, partially obscuring her face, and her shoulders had a slump to them that made her seem smaller somehow. 

Himeko's chest tightened with concern. "Kafka—"

Kafka looked up.

And Himeko's words died completely.

The image that met her was so incongruous with everything she knew about Kafka that her brain momentarily struggled to process it. This woman—this confident, untouchable woman—looked like nothing so much as a lost puppy. A drenched, pathetic, heartbroken puppy.

Her eyes were watering, though whether from the shower spray or something else, Himeko couldn't tell. The water made them look even larger and more vulnerable, reflecting the amber bathroom light with an almost luminous quality. Her lips were pressed into a pout—an actual pout—and there was something in her expression that was so unguarded, so genuinely wounded, that it made Himeko's heart twist painfully.

This wasn't the Kafka who she knew. This was someone else entirely, someone raw and exposed and achingly sincere.

Without thinking, Himeko reached up and cupped Kafka's face with one hand. Her palm pressed against Kafka's cheek, fingers curling slightly behind her jaw, thumb resting just below her cheekbone.

Kafka leaned into the touch immediately, like she'd been waiting for it. Her eyes fluttered closed and she turned her face further into Himeko's palm, nestling there with a desperation that made Himeko's breath catch. The gesture was so trusting, so needy, so unlike the woman Himeko thought she knew.

"I missed you so much," Kafka whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the shower. The words came out rough, strained, like they'd been pulled from somewhere deep and hidden.

Himeko's heart clenched. She opened her mouth to respond, to say ‘I missed you too', to ask 'Where have you been?’, to say any of the thousand things that had been building up inside her for three years—

"Did you miss me too?"

The question was rhetorical, posed in a way that suggested Kafka already knew the answer. But there was something underneath it, something uncertain that made Himeko hesitate. She wanted to answer, needed to answer, but her throat felt tight and the words wouldn't come.

She started to speak anyway, forcing her mouth to form the beginning of ‘Every damn day', but Kafka interrupted before it could emerge.

"You replaced me already," Kafka said, cutting her off. It wasn't accusatory. If anything, it sounded resigned. Sad. Like she'd already accepted this as truth. "You didn't miss me at all."

"That's not—" Himeko tried again, but Kafka was moving.

She leaned in, and Himeko felt warm lips press against her collarbone. The kiss was feather-light, barely there, but it sent electricity racing across her skin anyway. Kafka's breath was hot against her damp flesh, and Himeko's hand was still cupping her face, now at an awkward angle as Kafka bent lower.

"Do you miss me now?" Kafka murmured against her skin, and then she was moving upward.

Another kiss, higher this time. The hollow of Himeko's throat. "Do you miss me now?"

Himeko's breath hitched. Her free hand had come up to rest on Kafka's shoulder—whether to push her away or pull her closer, she honestly couldn't say. Her fingers pressed into wet skin, feeling the warmth of her, the realness of her.

Another kiss, at the curve where her neck met her jaw. "Do you miss me now?" The words were barely more than a breath, spoken directly against Himeko's pulse point, and she could feel her own heartbeat hammering there.

Kafka moved again, trailing upward with agonising slowness. A kiss at the corner of Himeko's jaw. "Do you miss me now?" Another at her cheek, just below her ear. "Do you miss me now?"

Himeko's brain was short-circuiting, caught between the absolute absurdity of the situation and the way her body was responding to each point of contact. This was Kafka—aloof, mysterious Kafka—acting like the most pathetic, desperate thing Himeko had ever seen, and it was doing something to her that she didn't have words for.

She knew she should say something, but her voice had abandoned her completely, and all she could do was stand there and feel as Kafka mapped a path up her face with soft, questioning kisses.

The corner of her mouth. "Do you miss me now?"

And then Kafka was there, face to face with her, lips hovering just barely above Himeko's own. Her eyes were open again—those strange, watering, desperate eyes—and she looked so utterly wrecked that Himeko’s restraint snapped like a taut cable under too much strain.

She couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't take the pathetic pout, couldn't take the wounded puppy expression, couldn't take the desperate neediness radiating off Kafka in waves. It was too much. This strong, confident woman reduced to this—asking for reassurance like she genuinely didn't know if Himeko had missed her, like there was any universe in which the answer could be no.

Himeko's hand slid from Kafka's cheek to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in wet hair, and she pulled. 

Their mouths crashed together with none of the gentleness that had characterised Kafka's kisses. This was fierce, almost desperate, three years of longing and anger and hurt and need all compressed into the point where their lips met. Himeko kissed her like she was trying to prove something, like she could pour every unsaid word directly into Kafka's mouth and make her understand. Their tongues slid hot and wet against each other, messy and demanding, saliva mixing with shower water as they devoured one another.

Kafka made a sound—surprise or relief or something in between—and then she was kissing back with equal intensity. One hand rising to grip Himeko’s waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, the other coming up to frame Himeko's face, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and any pretence of restraint evaporated between them. Their breasts pressed together, slick nipples hardening against each other with every frantic movement.

Water continued to pour down around them, running over their joined faces, making everything slick and warm and overwhelming. Himeko could taste it on Kafka's lips and could feel it streaming between them where their mouths moved together, dripping from their chins and sliding down their bodies. The shower created its own rhythm, a steady percussion that seemed to match the frantic beating of her heart and the growing ache between her thighs.

Kafka's lips parted against hers, and Himeko didn't hesitate. She swept her tongue into Kafka's mouth, claiming, exploring, relearning the taste and feel of her after so long. Kafka responded in kind, one of her hands sliding into Himeko's hair and gripping, not quite hard enough to hurt but enough to send sparks racing down her spine and straight to her throbbing clit.

They broke apart for just a second—just long enough to gasp in air—and Himeko caught a glimpse of Kafka's face. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips already swollen and red. She looked thoroughly kissed and absolutely devastating, and the pathetic puppy expression had been replaced by something hungrier, more familiar—raw, filthy lust.

Then they were kissing again, and Himeko stopped thinking entirely.

Kafka walked her backward until her back hit the tiled wall, and Himeko let out a soft gasp at the contact. The sound seemed to shoot straight through Kafka, and she pressed closer, eliminating what little space had existed between their bodies. 

Skin against skin, slick with water, heat building despite the moderate temperature of the shower.

Kafka's hands roamed—down Himeko's neck, across her shoulders, down her back. Not entirely sexual—though it definitely was that—just... touching, like she needed to confirm Himeko was real, was here and solid beneath her palms. And Himeko understood because she was doing the same thing, one hand still tangled in Kafka's hair while the other traced the curve of her waist, careful of the injuries but unable to resist the contact.

They kissed like they were trying to make up for lost time, like they could compress three years of absence into these moments under the water. Deep, consuming kisses that left them both breathless. Soft, exploratory ones that felt like rediscovery. Desperate, almost bruising ones that tasted like goodbye and hello and ‘please don't leave again’ all at once, tongues fucking each other’s mouths with wet, obscene sounds.

Kafka broke away to trail kisses along Himeko’s jaw, down her neck, tasting water and skin and something indefinably her. Himeko’s head fell back against the tile, her breathing ragged, pulse jumping between her legs.

"Yes," Himeko finally managed to say, the word coming out rough. "Yes, I missed you. Every day. Every day."

Kafka's arms wrapped around her, pulling her impossibly closer, and Himeko felt more than heard the shaky exhale that escaped her.

"Say it again," Kafka whispered.

So Himeko did. She said it between kisses, against Kafka's skin, into her mouth. Said it until the words lost meaning and became just another rhythm matching the water and their heartbeats and the desperate way they clung to each other.

Kafka's hands slid down Himeko's sides, and then suddenly the water pressure changed.

Himeko opened her eyes—she hadn't realised she'd closed them—and watched through the haze of steam and sensation as Kafka reached back and adjusted the shower settings. The rainfall spray diminished to a gentle drizzle, just enough to keep them wet but no longer overwhelming, no longer drowning out every other sound.

Then Kafka was moving, and Himeko's brain took a moment to catch up with what was happening.

She was sinking down. Slowly, carefully, mindful of her injuries but with clear intent. Her hands traced down Himeko's body as she went—ribs, waist, hips—leaving trails of heat in their wake. When her knees hit the shower floor, she looked up, and the sight of her there made Himeko's brain stall completely. 

She looked down at Kafka kneeling before her, water still dripping from her hair, and felt the world tilt sideways. This image—Kafka on her knees, hands resting on Himeko's hips, looking up at her with those dark, intense eyes, filled with an expression that was equal parts devotion and hunger—was going to be burned into her memory forever. She knew that with absolute certainty.

Kafka’s gaze flicked down to Himeko’s slick, swollen clit and back up again, lips parted with clear want.

"Kafka—" Himeko started, but her voice came out strangled and uncertain. "You're hurt; you should—"

But Kafka just shook her head slightly, her fingers pressing more firmly into Himeko's skin. 

The look on her face made protest impossible. Not quite begging, but close to it. Like this was something she needed, something essential, and Himeko denying her would be a cruelty neither of them could bear.

Himeko's hand found its way into Kafka's hair almost without conscious thought, fingers threading through the wet strands. "Okay," she whispered.

Kafka's expression softened with something that looked like relief, and then she leaned forward.

The first touch of her mouth was feather-light, almost tentative. Just the barest brush of lips against the inside of Himeko's thigh, high enough to make her intentions clear but still restrained. 

Himeko's breath shuddered out of her, and her fingers tightened slightly in Kafka's hair. Her other hand came up to brace against the tiled wall because she already knew her legs weren't going to be reliable.

Kafka took the response as encouragement. She pressed another kiss, higher this time, and Himeko felt the warmth of her breath against increasingly sensitive skin. Then another kiss, open-mouthed now, tongue darting out to taste water and flesh, and Himeko's head fell back against the wall with a soft thud.

The spray of the shower created a cocoon around them, turning everything soft and hazy. Steam rose in lazy curls, and the sound of water hitting tile and skin provided a gentle white noise that somehow made everything feel more intimate. More private. Like they existed in a space outside of normal reality where nothing mattered except the two of them and the way Kafka's mouth was mapping a path across her inner thigh, getting closer and closer to her dripping cunt.

Himeko tried to keep her breathing steady, tried to maintain some semblance of composure, but it was a losing battle. Each kiss sent sparks racing up her spine, and the anticipation was almost worse than the contact. Her body remembered this—remembered Kafka's touch, Kafka's mouth, the way she took her time like savouring something precious. Three years hadn't dulled that muscle memory at all.

"Kafka," she breathed, though she didn't know if it was a plea or a prayer or just a need to say her name.

Kafka looked up at her then, pausing in her ministrations, and the sight was almost obscene. Those dark eyes, heavy-lidded and wanting. Her lips, already kiss-swollen and parted. The way she was positioned—kneeling, subservient, yet somehow still in complete control of the situation.

Then finally, finally, she closed the remaining distance.

What followed was a study in contradictions—in feeling everything and nothing all at once. 

The first real touch stole the breath from Himeko's lungs. Kafka's mouth was hot despite the water, skilled in ways that made Himeko's knees threaten to buckle immediately. She started gentle—soft, exploratory touches of lips and tongue that made Himeko whimper despite herself. Learning her again, reacquainting herself with what Himeko liked, what made her gasp, what made her fingers tighten in dark hair. Her tongue flicked teasingly over Himeko’s swollen clit, then dragged slowly through her slick folds, tasting her arousal mixed with water.

And Aeons, Himeko had forgotten. Or maybe she'd tried to forget, tried to bury the memory of how good Kafka was at this, how thoroughly she could unravel her with nothing but her mouth. Every stroke of her tongue was deliberate and purposeful, like she'd spent three years thinking about this and was determined to make up for lost time. She sucked Himeko’s clit between her lips, tongue swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves with perfect pressure, then dipped lower to push inside her entrance, fucking her slowly with her tongue.

She could feel the cool tile against her back where she'd braced herself against the shower wall. Could feel the lingering warmth of the steam in the air, making her skin hypersensitive. Could feel her own heartbeat, frantic and unsteady, pounding so hard she wondered if Kafka could hear it. 

Himeko's hips shifted involuntarily, seeking more contact, and Kafka's hands tightened on her hips. Keeping her grounded even as she threatened to fly apart. The contrast between Kafka's firm grip and the soft warmth of her mouth created a push-pull of sensation that made it hard to think about anything else.

The shower water ran down Himeko's body and over Kafka's face, making everything slick and warm. She could feel it pooling where their bodies met, could hear the change in sound as it cascaded over them both, mixing with the wet, obscene sounds of Kafka eating her out. It should have been awkward, maybe—too much water, too much sensory input. But instead, it just added another layer to everything and made every sensation more acute.

Kafka shifted slightly, adjusting her angle, and Himeko's vision whited out for a moment as pleasure spiked through her. A sound escaped her throat—halfway between a moan and Kafka's name—and she felt rather than saw Kafka's pleased hum in response.

"God, your mouth feels so good." Himeko gasped, her hand scrambling for purchase on the wet tile. "Kafka, I—fuck—"

Words were becoming impossible. Coherent thought was becoming impossible. There was only sensation—the heat of Kafka's mouth against her clit, the pressure of her tongue, the occasional graze of teeth that sent jolts of electricity racing through her. The way Kafka knew exactly where to focus and exactly how much pressure to use, like she'd kept a map of Himeko's body in her memory and was following it with perfect precision.

Her emotions were building fast too. Pleasure, yes, but tangled up with so much else that it became impossible to separate one from another. Longing. Relief. Anger. Forgiveness. Love—Aeons, so much love it felt like drowning. 

Himeko's thighs were trembling now, and she was grateful for Kafka's hands holding her steady, for the wall at her back supporting her weight. The heat building in her core was almost unbearable, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with each pass of Kafka's tongue, her clit pulsing under that relentless, perfect mouth.

She looked down—couldn't help herself—and immediately regretted it because the sight nearly undid her on the spot. Kafka between her legs, utterly focused, lost in what she was doing with an intensity that was almost reverent. Her eyes were closed now, water streaming over her face, and she looked like she was exactly where she wanted to be. Like this was worship and devotion and coming home all at once.

The thought—'She missed this too, missed me, maybe as much as I missed her’—combined with a particularly skilful movement of Kafka's tongue, and Himeko felt herself approaching the edge with dizzying speed.

Kafka's hand moved from Himeko's hip to lace their fingers together, squeezing once. That simple gesture was somehow more devastating than anything else. 

Himeko's breathing grew more ragged, and she had to close her eyes because watching Kafka like this was too much. But closing her eyes only made everything else more intense, so she opened them again, caught between wanting to see and needing to look away.

Her fingers tightened in Kafka's hair, and Kafka made a soft sound in response, and Himeko felt it reverberate through her entire body, the vibration pushing her closer.

"Kafka," she managed, the name coming out as a warning and a plea. "I'm—I can't—"

Kafka's response was to double her efforts, and that was all it took.

Pleasure crashed over Himeko in waves, stealing her breath and her vision and every thought except Kafka, Kafka, Kafka. Her body went rigid, fingers tightening almost painfully in dark hair, and she might have said something—Kafka's name, or a curse, or some incoherent sound—but she couldn't be sure over the rushing in her ears.

Kafka didn't stop, drawing out every last tremor until Himeko was shaking, oversensitive, practically whimpering. Only then did she pull back, pressing one last gentle kiss to Himeko's inner thigh before looking up.

She looked devastatingly pleased with herself, lips red and wet with Himeko’s cum, eyes dark with satisfaction. Like she'd just won something important.

Himeko couldn't find words. Her brain was still offline, her body still trembling with aftershocks. All she could do was stare down at Kafka with something like awe, like disbelief, like she couldn't quite process that this had just happened.

Kafka rose slowly, wincing slightly as her knees protested, and Himeko immediately reached out to steady her. Their faces were close again now, and Himeko could see every detail—the water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, the slight flush across her cheeks, the way she was breathing a little harder than normal.

"Hi," Kafka said softly, and there was something almost shy in her expression now, the confidence from moments ago giving way to something more vulnerable.

Himeko let out a breathless laugh that was half disbelief, half pure emotion. Then she pulled Kafka into a kiss—gentle and thorough and tasting of herself—trying to convey everything she couldn't put into words.

Her hands came up to frame Kafka's face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones with a tenderness that felt almost fragile. Kafka kissed her back with matching gentleness, like they had all the time in the world. Like they weren't standing in a shower with pruning fingers and aching legs. 

Himeko wasn't sure who deepened it first—whether she pulled Kafka closer or Kafka pressed forward—but suddenly the kiss went from soft to desperate in a heartbeat. Kafka kissed her like she was trying to consume her, and Himeko gave as good as she got, pouring every ounce of longing and frustration and need into the contact.

Kafka's hands slid into her hair, gripping, tilting her head for better access, and Himeko responded by wrapping her arms around Kafka's waist and hauling her flush against her body, their slick, naked bodies sliding together once more.

They broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath in the humid air. Himeko's lips felt swollen and oversensitive, and she could feel her pulse hammering in her throat and between her legs, her cunt throbbing with fresh need.

"Can you—" Kafka's voice was rough, almost unrecognisable. "Are you good to go again?"

It didn’t take Himeko's pleasure-fogged brain a moment to process the question. 

"Yes." Himeko heard herself say.

The word had barely left her mouth before Kafka was kissing her again, tongues tangling desperately. They stumbled out of the shower somehow, mouths still locked together, hands grabbing and pulling and exploring greedily. Himeko vaguely registered Kafka reaching back to turn off the water, and then they were moving—crashing through the bathroom door into her bedroom with none of the grace either of them usually possessed, leaving wet footprints and dripping trails behind them.

Kafka walked her backward, and Himeko let herself be guided, too caught up in the taste of her to care where they were going. Her legs hit the edge of the bed and she fell backward, pulling Kafka down with her. They landed in a tangle of wet limbs, Kafka's weight settling on top of her in a way that felt impossibly right. The sheets beneath them immediately began to soak through—wet hair, wet skin, water still clinging to their bodies creating dark patches on the fabric. Himeko registered this distantly, knew she should care about ruining her bed, but found she absolutely didn't.

Not when Kafka was above her like this, braced on her forearms, looking down at her with an expression so intense it bordered on painful. Dark hair fell around her face like a curtain, water dripping onto Himeko's chest and sliding down between her breasts, and even with the bruises and bandages, she was the most beautiful thing Himeko had ever seen.

"Hi," Kafka said again, softer this time, and Himeko reached up and pulled her down into another kiss, swallowing whatever else she might have wanted to say. Kafka melted into it, her body pressing more fully against Himeko's, and the feeling of skin on skin—still damp, still warm—sent a shiver racing down her spine.

She broke the kiss to trail her lips down Himeko's jaw, across her neck, pausing to suck gently at her pulse point, then biting down just enough to leave a mark. Himeko gasped, her back arching sharply, pushing her breasts up, and felt Kafka smile against her skin. Those lips continued their path downward—across her collarbone, down to the hollow of her throat, mapping territory they'd claimed before but seemed determined to reclaim now, leaving a trail of wet kisses and faint bite marks.

When Kafka reached her chest, she paused. Her mouth hovered just above Himeko's breast, breath hot against damp skin, and Himeko could feel the anticipation coiling tight in her belly.

Then Kafka bit down.

Not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make Himeko cry out—a sharp inhale followed by a moan she couldn't suppress. The sensation was perfect, that edge between pleasure and pain that lit up every nerve ending and sent a fresh gush of wetness between her thighs. Kafka soothed the bite with her tongue, then moved to do it again—teeth grazing, then closing, then that gentle lick after, sucking hard enough to leave dark hickeys.

She worked her way across Himeko's chest, alternating between bites and kisses and long, wet sweeps of her tongue. Each point of contact left heat in its wake, and Himeko could feel the marks blooming across her skin. Hickeys and bite marks, possessive and deliberate, scattered across her torso like evidence of ownership. Her nipples were sucked and bitten until they were swollen and hypersensitive, each tug of Kafka’s mouth shooting straight to her dripping cunt.

"Stop," Himeko gasped out, though the word lacked any real conviction. "Don't—not where others can see. Welt will—"

Kafka's response was to bite down harder on the soft skin just below her collarbone, hard enough to make Himeko yelp and arch up off the bed, her soaked pussy clenching around nothing. When she pulled back, Himeko could see the wicked gleam in her eyes, the satisfaction at having made her react so shamelessly.

"Kafka," Himeko tried again, but it came out breathy and weak, more moan than protest.

Kafka just moved lower, kissing and biting a path down her stomach, and Himeko felt the words die in her throat. Each mark Kafka left felt like a claim, like she was branding Himeko as hers in a way that was probably unhealthy but felt too good to protest properly. Her tongue dipped into Himeko’s navel, then continued downward, leaving a shiny trail of saliva.

"I missed you," Kafka murmured against her skin. "Aeons, Himeko, I missed you so much. Every day. Every single day." 

Her hands were everywhere, mapping the curves of Himeko's body like she was trying to memorise them all over again. One palm slid up her side, thumb brushing just under her breast, while the other gripped her hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, fingers digging into soft flesh.

"I thought about you constantly; wondered what you were doing," Kafka continued, almost frantically now. "Every day I thought about this, about touching you, kissing you, holding you."

The words hit Himeko like physical blows, each one landing somewhere in her chest and making it harder to breathe. It was too much. The emotions she was feeling were too big, threatening to drown her in a different way than the pleasure had. She felt tears pricking at her eyes and couldn't tell if they were from relief or hurt or all the stimulation her body was receiving.

"Stop," Himeko managed, her voice coming out rough and strained. "Stop talking."

Kafka pulled back slightly, concern flickering across her features, but Himeko grabbed her face before she could say anything else.

"Just—" She swallowed hard, trying to find words that wouldn't make her seem more pathetic than she already probably looked. "Just shut up and fuck me. Please."

Understanding dawned in Kafka's eyes, and an obnoxiously smug smirk crossed her face.

She shifted her position slightly, and Himeko watched as Kafka brought her hand up between them. Two fingers pressed against Himeko's lips—a question and a command all at once—and Himeko opened her mouth without hesitation, taking them in and sucking greedily, hollowing her cheeks as she swirled her tongue along the length of them, coating them thoroughly with saliva. The taste was just water and skin and somehow still intoxicating. She watched Kafka watch her and saw the way her pupils dilated further.

Kafka's breath hitched. "Aeons, you're so hot—"

But she didn't finish the thought. Instead, she slowly withdrew her fingers from Himeko's mouth, trailing them down her chin, then her throat, then between her breasts, leaving a wet line. Lower and lower until—

The first touch was barely there, just the ghost of a fingertip sliding through her soaked folds, but it made Himeko's hips jerk up involuntarily. She was already so sensitive from before, already dripping wet and swollen, and Kafka knew it. Was using it against her, teasing her entrance without pushing in.

"Don't tease," Himeko gasped out, somewhere between a plea and a demand, her voice breaking.

Kafka's response was to lower her mouth and trace her tongue along the same path her finger had taken, maddeningly slow and deliberate, lapping at her juices. Himeko's hands fisted in the sheets, her head falling back against the pillows as sensation overwhelmed her, hips bucking shamelessly.

"Please," she whimpered, and hated how desperate she sounded but couldn't bring herself to care.

Kafka hummed against her, the vibration sending sparks racing through her nervous system, and finally—finally—Himeko felt a finger slide deep inside her slick heat.

The sensation pulled a moan from her throat, low and needy. Just one finger, barely anything, but after all the teasing it felt like everything. 

Kafka moved slowly, torturously so, working her finger in and out with careful precision while her mouth continued its work, tongue flicking over her clit.

"More," Himeko demanded, her hips rolling to meet each thrust. "Kafka, please give me more."

But Kafka ignored her, maintaining that same agonising pace at first. Her tongue circled and flicked over Himeko’s swollen clit, her finger curled just right, and Himeko could feel herself climbing toward that edge again but not fast enough, not nearly fast enough.

"Kafka—" Himeko didn't finish the thought because Kafka chose that moment to add a second finger, thrusting them deep and scissoring them open.

The stretch made Himeko cry out, her back arching sharply off the bed, inner walls fluttering greedily around the intrusion. It was exactly what she needed, exactly right, and Kafka seemed to know it. She set a rhythm now—faster, harder, her fingers working in tandem with her mouth in a way that made coherent thought impossible, the wet squelching sounds of her fingers fucking into Himeko’s soaked cunt filling the room.

Much to her chagrin, Himeko was noisy—she'd never been able to help it, especially not with Kafka—and she wasn't holding back now. Every thrust drew a sound from her, moans and gasps and broken repetitions of Kafka's name. Her hands had found their way into dark hair again, holding on for dear life as pleasure built with dizzying intensity, hips grinding against Kafka’s face and fingers while she cried out, "Yes—right there. Fuck me just like that. Please don’t stop."

Kafka pulled back just enough to look up at her, fingers never stopping their movement, and the sight of her was almost enough to send Himeko over the edge on its own. Her lips were wet and shiny with Himeko’s arousal, her eyes dark and hungry, and she looked absolutely wrecked in the best possible way.

She shifted upward, her mouth finding Himeko's breast while her fingers continued their relentless pace. She sucked hard enough to make Himeko gasp, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, tongue circling and flicking in counterpoint to the rhythm of her hand, pulling and tugging on her nipple until it was throbbing.

The dual sensation made Himeko's mind white out. Kafka's fingers inside her, moving with devastating precision, while her mouth worked magic on increasingly sensitive skin. It was almost too much, the pleasure building faster than should have been possible given how recently she'd come, but Kafka knew her body too well. Knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to move, exactly when to add pressure or pull back.

"You're so beautiful," Kafka murmured against her skin, her voice low and reverent. Her fingers curled inside Himeko, hitting that perfect spot, and Himeko cried out. Her hands found Kafka's shoulders, nails digging in, needing something to anchor herself to. 

"That's it," Kafka encouraged. "Let me hear you." She worked Himeko with single-minded focus, her mouth alternating between breasts while her hand maintained that perfect rhythm. And she kept talking—words of praise and adoration whispered against flushed skin. 

Himeko was babbling now, a stream of "please" and "yes" and "don't stop" and "harder" that she had no control over. Her thighs were shaking, her whole body pulled taut like a bowstring, and she was so close, so impossibly close—

"Kafka," she gasped, the name the only coherent thing she could manage. "Please—I'm—"

Then she felt it—the pressure of a third finger, the stretch as Kafka slowly worked it inside alongside the others, filling her completely.

The sensation was overwhelming, almost too much, pushing her past the point of coherence. Himeko's fingers desperately dug into Kafka’s back even more, and she felt her nails rake down skin as her body arched sharply off the bed, leaving red scratches. Kafka hissed—a sharp intake of breath that was definitely pain—but she didn't stop. If anything, her movements became more determined, fingers thrusting deeper, harder, her mouth returning to Himeko's breast with renewed focus, sucking and biting. "I’m sorry," Himeko tried to gasp out, guilt flashing through the haze of pleasure. "I didn't mean to—I'm—"

But the words wouldn't come. Her brain had disconnected from her mouth entirely, leaving her capable of nothing but sounds—moans and whimpers and broken attempts at Kafka's name. 

She wanted to apologise for hurting her, but her body had other priorities and her voice simply wouldn't cooperate. Kafka seemed unbothered anyway. She shifted her angle slightly, and the new position made Himeko cry out, her hips bucking up to meet each thrust, the wet sounds growing louder and filthier. "Aeons, yes, just like that," Himeko managed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm so close—"

She could feel it building, that pressure coiling tighter and tighter in her core. Every stroke of Kafka's fingers brought her closer to the edge, every curl and thrust and press making her climb higher. Her thighs were shaking, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding on, and she was right there, right there—

Kafka pulled out completely.

The sudden absence made Himeko whine—an actual, desperate whine that she would have been embarrassed about under any other circumstances. Her hips lifted, seeking the contact that was no longer there, her empty cunt clenching around nothing, dripping onto the sheets.

"Why—" she started, ready to complain, to beg, to demand Kafka finish what she'd started.

But then she watched as Kafka brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean, eyes locked on Himeko's the entire time, moaning at the taste of her cum and arousal.

Heat flooded Himeko's face so fast she felt dizzy with it. She knew she was bright red, could feel the burn spreading from her cheeks down her neck, and she immediately covered her face with both hands, even as fresh slick gushed from her pussy at the obscene sight.

"That's—you can't just—that's so—" The words came out muffled through her palms, embarrassment warring with arousal in a way that made her want to sink into the mattress and disappear.

She felt rather than saw Kafka move, and then there was a soft, almost chaste kiss pressed to her cheek. 

"You're adorable when you blush," Kafka murmured, and she could hear the smile in her voice. Himeko dropped her hands just enough to glare at her, though the effect was probably ruined by how flushed and dishevelled she knew she looked. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

And she was right, damn her. Himeko didn't hate her at all.

Suddenly, an idea formed in Himeko’s pleasure-fogged mind and she took a breath, trying to steady herself.

"I want—" She stopped to clear her throat and tried again. "I want us to come together."

Kafka's eyes darkened with pure lust, and Himeko saw her swallow hard. "Yeah?"

And Himeko, too embarrassed to speak, only nodded in response.

Kafka shifted, moving with careful deliberation, and reached down to hook her hand under Himeko's knee. She lifted Himeko's leg, positioning it over her shoulder, and then she was adjusting her own position, lowering herself until—

The first contact made them both gasp. Kafka settled herself against Himeko, their soaked, swollen pussies pressing together hot and slick, the angle allowing them to slot together in a way that was immediately, intensely perfect—clits rubbing directly against each other with every movement. The sensation was different from before—more diffused, less focused, but somehow more intimate for it, their combined wetness making everything slippery and obscene.

Kafka began to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate motions that made Himeko's breath catch, and Himeko matched her rhythm, her own hips rising to meet each movement, their clits catching and rubbing with delicious pressure. The friction was exquisite, building gradually, wet sounds filling the air as their cores slid and ground together.

"Aeons," Kafka breathed, voice hoarse. One of her hands came down to brace against the mattress while the other gripped Himeko’s thigh, holding her leg steady, fingers digging in hard.

Himeko's hands found Kafka's arm, careful to avoid the worst of the injuries, and she used the leverage to pull herself closer, to increase the pressure between them. The movement made them both moan loudly, and Kafka's rhythm stuttered for a moment before she found it again, their hips grinding faster, slick folds parting and sliding against one another.

It was slower than before, more sustained. They moved together in a rhythm that felt ancient and instinctive, their bodies finding a synchronisation that didn't require thought or coordination. The wet, filthy sounds of skin on skin and cunt against cunt mixed with their breathing, both of them already gasping, and Himeko could feel the heat building low in her belly, their juices mixing and coating their thighs.

Kafka shifted slightly, changing the angle, and Himeko cried out as sensation spiked through her, their clits grinding harder. But Kafka’s movements were getting less controlled now, more erratic, and Himeko could see the strain in her face, the way her eyes had gone unfocused.

She was close. They both were.

Himeko's leg was shaking where Kafka held it, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding on. The pleasure was different this time—more gradual but somehow deeper, spreading through her entire body rather than concentrating in one point. Every roll of Kafka's hips sent waves of sensation radiating outward, building and building until Himeko felt like she was drowning in it.

"Kafka," she whimpered, and it was both a prayer and a plea. "I'm—I can't—I'm gonna—"

"Me too," Kafka gasped, and her rhythm was breaking down completely now, becoming desperate and frantic. "Himeko, I'm— fuck, you feel so good—"

Their eyes met, and Himeko reached up with one shaking hand to cup Kafka's face, and Kafka turned into the touch, pressing a kiss to her palm.

She came with a cry that was half Kafka's name and half incoherent sound, pleasure crashing over her in waves that seemed to go on forever. Her body arched, inner muscles clenching and releasing rhythmically, her pussy gushing and pulsing against Kafka’s as she ground through her orgasm, soaking them both. Kafka's orgasm followed moments later, her hips stuttering against Himeko's as she gasped out her release, her own cunt spasming and flooding against Himeko’s.

They rode it out together, movements becoming gradually slower, gentler, until they were both trembling and oversensitive and completely spent, pussies still twitching with aftershocks where they pressed together. 

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, bodies still pressed together, slick with sweat, cum, and water. Eventually, Kafka carefully lowered Himeko's leg, and Himeko immediately felt the ache in her muscles, the pleasant soreness that would remind her of this tomorrow.

Kafka shifted to the side, rolling off Himeko to collapse beside her on the bed. Her chest was heaving, breathing laboured, and Himeko could see sweat mixing with the remaining moisture from the shower on her skin.

Before Himeko could say anything, Kafka's arm came around her waist and pulled her close. Himeko went willingly, tucking herself against Kafka's side with her head on her shoulder. Kafka's other arm wrapped around her from the other side, holding her securely, and Himeko felt one of her legs slide between hers in a tangle of limbs that was somehow comfortable despite being completely chaotic.

"Okay?" Kafka asked.

Himeko made a sound of affirmation, too wrung out to form actual words. Her body felt like liquid, boneless and warm, and the steady rise and fall of Kafka's chest beneath her cheek was soothing in a way that made her eyes want to close.

She knew she should get up, make them both eat something, check Kafka's bandages, or probably do something about the absolutely soaked bed beneath them. But she couldn't bring herself to move and break the warm cocoon of Kafka's embrace.

Kafka's breathing was already starting to even out, exhaustion finally catching up with her. Her fingers traced idle patterns on Himeko's shoulder, the touch gentle and absent-minded, and Himeko felt her own consciousness starting to fade away. "Don't leave," Himeko whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "When you wake up. Don't leave."

Before she could hear Kafka’s response, her eyes were already sliding shut, sleep pulling at her with irresistible force. The last thing she registered was the feeling of Kafka's lips pressing against the top of her head, a gentle kiss that felt like a promise.

Then darkness claimed her, and she knew nothing more.

The room fell silent except for the sound of two people breathing in sync, tangled together in soaked sheets, holding onto each other like they were afraid of what would happen if they let go.

────────

Himeko woke slowly, awareness returning in stages. First came the pleasant ache in her muscles—a reminder of what had transpired hours earlier that made heat creep across her cheeks even in her half-asleep state. Then came the feeling of the sheets against her skin, damp in places and uncomfortably cool where they'd soaked through to the mattress beneath her.

And then came the cold.

Not the ambient temperature of the room, which was perfectly fine. But a specific cold—the absence of warmth where there should have been a body pressed against her back. Where Kafka should have been.

Himeko's eyes snapped open, and her heart immediately began to race. The space behind her was empty, the sheets there cool to the touch like they'd been abandoned for a while. Panic clawed its way up her throat. This was familiar. This was how it had happened before—waking up to find Kafka gone, like she'd never been there at all except for the ghost of her presence still lingering in the room.

No. No, she wouldn't. Not after promising—

But even as Himeko tried to rationalise and tried to convince herself that there had to be another explanation, the old hurt was already surfacing. Three years of it, compressed and ready to bloom all over again. She'd let Kafka back in—literally and figuratively. What if Kafka had got what she wanted and simply left again without a word, without explanation, without—

Then she smelt it. The acrid, familiar scent of cigarette smoke.

Himeko pushed herself up on one hand, her hair falling messily around her face, and her eyes found the source immediately.

Kafka stood by one of the porthole windows, mostly silhouetted against the dim light filtering through from outside. The rain had stopped at some point, and the weak sunlight of the planet illuminated her form—naked, unbandaged in places where the shower had loosened them, one arm wrapped around her midsection while the other brought a cigarette to her lips. 

She took a slow drag, the cherry glowing orange in the dimness, and exhaled smoke toward the partially cracked window.

She hadn’t left.

Relief hit Himeko so hard it was almost painful. 

Then the relief immediately transformed into irritation.

Kafka must have sensed her movement because she turned, and her eyes travelled over Himeko's form. While propping herself up, the covers had slipped down, leaving her torso completely exposed. She watched Kafka's gaze trace over her—shoulders, breasts, the curve of her waist—and saw the faint blush that crept across her cheeks even in the low light.

It was oddly endearing, that blush. Almost innocent, like Kafka hadn't just had her hands and mouth all over that same body hours ago. The contradiction between her usual confidence and this woman who could still be made to blush at the sight of nudity was something Himeko might have found charming under different circumstances.

But right now, she was too annoyed.

"Are you kidding me right now?" Himeko's voice came out sharp, cutting through the quiet of the room. She sat up fully, not bothering to cover herself, and fixed Kafka with a glare that she hoped conveyed exactly how unimpressed she was. "You know I don't like it when you smoke in here. And you're—" She gestured at Kafka's battered form. "You're barely alive, Kafka. You showed up at my door half-dead and now you're—what, trying to finish the job?"

Kafka had the grace to look somewhat chastened, though the cigarette remained between her fingers. She took another drag before speaking, and Himeko watched the smoke curl lazily toward the window.

"I had a nightmare," Kafka said in defense. "Woke up in a cold sweat and needed to calm down. I didn't want to wake you, love."

The anger in Himeko's chest deflated slightly, though the irritation remained. She could see it now—the slight tremor in Kafka's hand that had nothing to do with her injuries, the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she was trying to take up less space. Whatever she'd dreamed about, it had shaken her badly enough that she'd needed a coping mechanism.

"What did you dream about?" Himeko asked, her voice softer now. 

Kafka was quiet for a long moment, bringing the cigarette to her lips again. The silence stretched, and Himeko knew that silence. It was the one Kafka used when she had no intention of answering, when she was weighing whether she could deflect or if she needed to simply refuse outright.

Himeko sighed. Of course. Even now, even after everything, Kafka was still keeping secrets.

"Come back to bed," she said instead of pushing. She was too tired to fight, and the sheets were cold without another body to share warmth with.

Kafka didn't move immediately. She stood there, silhouetted against the window, cigarette burning down between her fingers, and Himeko could practically see her weighing her options. Debating whether to finish the cigarette or whether to argue.

Then, with a sigh, Kafka stubbed the cigarette out against the window frame and set the remains on the sill. She crossed the room slowly, and Himeko shifted to make room for her.

The bed dipped as Kafka climbed in, and Himeko moved inward, her back suddenly hitting the cold wall. She suppressed a shiver at the temperature difference, but it was worth it to feel Kafka settle beside her, to feel the mattress warm again with another person's presence.

They arranged themselves facing each other, heads sharing the same pillow, close enough that Himeko could count Kafka's eyelashes if she wanted to. Close enough to see the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes and the slight furrow between her brows that suggested whatever she'd dreamed about was still bothering her.

Neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other in the dim light, and Himeko found herself cataloguing all the small details she'd missed during the intensity of earlier. The exact shade of Kafka's eyes—darker around the edges, lighter near the pupil, shifting colours depending on the light. The small scar on her chin that Himeko had forgotten the story about. The way her hair fell across the pillow, still slightly damp at the ends.

"Thank you," Kafka said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Himeko blinked. "For what?"

"For not leaving me half-dead at your door."

The words were said with a small smile, like it was meant to be a joke, but there was genuine gratitude underneath. Like Kafka had actually considered the possibility that Himeko might have turned her away, might have let her bleed out on the Express' threshold rather than let her back in.

The thought made something twist uncomfortably in Himeko's chest.

"It's not like I had a choice," she said, trying for nonchalant and probably failing. "What was I supposed to do, just leave you there?"

Kafka's smile widened slightly, and she let out a soft laugh—barely more than an exhale, really. "I suppose not."

The silence returned. Himeko watched Kafka's face, watched the play of shadows and dim starlight across her features, and felt something settle in her chest that she couldn't quite name.

Kafka moved then, bringing one hand up to Himeko's face. Her fingers were gentle as they brushed aside the strands of hair that had fallen across Himeko's cheek, tucking them behind her ear with careful precision. 

She waited until Kafka's hand had fallen back to rest between them, and then she brought her own hand up. Her palm cupped Kafka's cheek, thumb stroking along her cheekbone, and she felt Kafka lean into the touch almost unconsciously. Like a plant turning toward sunlight, like something starved for contact finally being fed.

Himeko held her there for a moment, just feeling the warmth of her skin. Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Kafka's forehead—soft and chaste and full of things she didn't have words for.

When she pulled back, she found herself smiling.

"Hi, puppy," she said softly.

Kafka's eyes had been closed, but they opened at that, and Himeko watched the blush creep across her cheeks again. It was fascinating, really, how someone so usually smug could look so endearingly flustered at a simple pet name.

"Don't call me that," Kafka murmured, but there was no heat behind it. If anything, she looked pleased.

She closed her eyes again and nuzzled further into Himeko's palm, turning her head to press a kiss there. Then another, to the centre of her palm, her lips soft and warm against skin. It was sweet in a way that made Himeko's heart ache, in a way that reminded her of all the small intimacies she'd missed over the past three years.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other. Kafka's face cradled in Himeko's hand, occasionally pressing kisses to her palm like she couldn't help herself. Himeko's thumb stroking slow, soothing circles against her cheekbone. Neither of them speaking, neither of them needing to.

Himeko felt her eyes growing heavy, exhaustion pulling at her despite the relatively short sleep she'd gotten. Kafka's breathing had evened out too, becoming deeper and more relaxed, and Himeko wondered if she'd fallen back asleep.

She hoped whatever dreams came this time would be kinder.

Her hand remained on Kafka's face, and Kafka's remained between them, occasionally twitching to press another kiss to Himeko's wrist or palm. The gesture had become almost automatic, like Kafka was reassuring herself that Himeko was still there, still willing to hold her.

And Himeko was. Despite everything, she was still willing to hold her. 

The silence wrapped around them like a second blanket, warm and encompassing. Himeko's breathing had almost synced with Kafka's, their bodies finding a rhythm together that felt natural despite the years apart. She was on the edge of sleep again when Kafka spoke, her voice so quiet Himeko almost missed it.

"Pteruges-V."

Himeko's eyes opened, confusion cutting through the drowsy haze. "What?"

"Pteruges-V," Kafka repeated, and there was something distant in her voice. "That's what I dreamed about."

The name meant nothing to Himeko. She'd never heard it before and couldn't place it on any of the star maps she'd memorised or in any of the travel logs she'd read. But the way Kafka said it told her everything she needed to know.

"Your home planet?" Himeko asked softly.

Kafka made a small sound of confirmation, and Himeko felt her shift slightly, though she didn't pull away from the hand still cradling her face.

"What did you see?" Himeko asked, keeping her voice gentle. She wasn't sure Kafka would answer—wasn't sure she wanted her to, given the tension radiating through her frame—but she had to ask.

Kafka was quiet for a long moment, and Himeko could see her working through something behind closed eyes. Deciding how much to share, or maybe just trying to find words for things that didn't want to be spoken.

"My parents," she finally said. "Or... people I assumed were my parents. I've never actually remembered their faces, so I don't know if that's who they really were, but in the dream they felt like they should have been important."

Himeko's thumb continued its soothing circles on Kafka's cheek.

"What did they look like?" she asked.

"I can't remember." The words came out frustrated, almost bitter. "Even in the dream, I couldn't see them properly. They were... greyed out. Like someone had taken an eraser to a photograph and smudged away all the identifying features. No faces, no details. Just vague shapes where people should have been."

Kafka's breathing had picked up slightly, and Himeko could feel the tension building in her shoulders.

"But they had these holes," Kafka continued, her voice dropping lower. "Right in the centre of their chests. Gaping, black holes that went all the way through, like something had reached in and scooped out everything essential and left just the shell behind."

"Kafka…" Himeko breathed, her heart clenching.

"And there was red everywhere," she said, and her voice had gone flat. "So much red. On the walls, on the floor, pooling in corners and running in rivers between floorboards. The whole planet was drowning in it, and I—"

She broke off, swallowing hard.

"Sorry, I guess my mission brought up some bad memories."

To that, Himeko said nothing. Aeons knew she wanted to demand more information on this ‘mission.’ On why Kafka showed up half-dead at her doorstep, but a part of her told her her questions would be better off dying in her throat, so she let them.

"I can't stand the sight of that red, Himeko. I hate it. The smell of it, the taste of it—it's all I've ever known. It's in every memory I have of that place—it’s in every single one of my memories in general. It’s soaked into everything so much so that I can't separate the colour from the feeling.

Himeko's chest felt tight, her throat constricting with emotion she didn't know how to process. She wanted to say something, to offer comfort, but what words could possibly be adequate for this? 

Kafka's eyes opened then, and she looked up at Himeko with an intensity that was almost desperate. If Himeko didn’t know any better, she’d say they were bright with unshed tears.

"The only red I ever want to know," she said, reaching up to take a strand of Himeko's hair between her fingers, "is this red. Your red."

She brought the strand to her face, rubbing it between her fingers like she was grounding herself with the texture. "I love the sight of it. The smell of it—coffee and vanilla. This is the only red that doesn't make me want to—" She cut herself off again.

Himeko felt her own eyes beginning to burn. The confession was so genuine, that it made her want to gather Kafka up and protect her from everything that had ever hurt her. To somehow reach back through time and shield her from whatever had happened on that planet, whatever had carved that hole inside her and filled it with blood-red memories.

"You can have it," Himeko said, and her voice came out thick with emotion. "For the rest of your life, Kafka. All of it. You just—" She swallowed hard. "You just have to come back. To the Express. You come back and stay, and it's yours."

It was as close to begging as Himeko had ever come. 

Kafka's eyes met hers, and her expression crumbled. The careful mask she'd been maintaining—even in this vulnerable moment—finally broke apart, and Himeko saw the truth underneath. Saw the answer before Kafka even opened her mouth.

"I can't," Kafka whispered, and the words sounded like they were being torn from somewhere deep inside her. "Himeko, I can't."

"Why not?" Himeko demanded, though she tried to keep her voice gentle. "Just tell me why. Make me understand."

Kafka's hand came up to press against her own chest, fingers splayed over her sternum. "Because I have it too. That same gaping hole my parents—those people—had. It's right here, and it's been here for as long as I can remember, and nothing fixes it. Nothing fills it."

"I'll fix it," Himeko said immediately, desperately. "Let me try. Let me—"

"You can't." Kafka's voice was firm now, almost resigned. "I've tried to use you as a remedy, Himeko. I tried so hard. Being with you, loving you—it helped for a while. Made the hole feel smaller, but it never went away. It was always there, eating at me from the inside."

The knowledge sat between them like a physical weight.

"But I found a way," Kafka continued. "I found a way to fix it. To fill the hole."

"How?" Himeko asked, though part of her didn't want to know.

Kafka's expression was unreadable.

"I can't tell you the details, but I met someone who promised they could help." she said. "But to get what I want, I'll need to make a sacrifice."

Himeko opened her mouth to respond, to ask what that meant, to demand clarity. But the words wouldn't come. Because she understood, even without Kafka spelling it out. 

The Trailblaze. The Express. Her. That's what she'd have to give up.

And she was saying she couldn't come back. Or wouldn't. 

Himeko felt the tears building, felt them burning at the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. She looked at Kafka and saw that she was close to crying—just barely, tears pooling at her lower lashes.

"I'm sorry," Kafka whispered, and her voice was barely above a whisper. "Himeko, I'm so sorry."

Himeko couldn't speak. Her throat had closed completely, and if she tried to say anything she knew she'd just fall apart. So instead she said nothing. She just pulled Kafka closer, eliminating what little space remained between them, and Kafka came willingly.

She buried her face in the curve of Himeko's neck, and Himeko felt the dampness of unshed tears against her skin. Kafka's arms wrapped around her, holding on like Himeko was the only solid thing in a tilting world, and Himeko held her back just as tightly.

Himeko pressed a kiss to the top of Kafka's head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with cigarette smoke. She wanted to memorise it, to imprint this moment so deeply into her memory that she could pull it out later when the bed was empty again.

Because she knew. Even without Kafka saying it explicitly, Himeko knew.

When she woke up tomorrow—or later today—Kafka would be gone. The bed would be cold again, and there would be no note, no explanation, just the ghost of her presence and the ache of absence. Just like before.

Kafka had come back just long enough to break Himeko's heart all over again, and the worst part was that Himeko had let her. Had welcomed her in, bandaged her wounds, made love to her, and held her through nightmares. Had given her everything despite knowing—subconsciously—that it would end like this.

She tightened her arms around Kafka, and Kafka burrowed closer, her breathing already starting to even out. Exhaustion was pulling at them both, the emotional weight of the conversation draining what little energy they had left.

Himeko didn't want to sleep.  She wanted to stay awake and hold Kafka for every remaining second, to stretch this moment as long as physically possible. But her body had other ideas, and she felt consciousness beginning to slip away despite her best efforts.

Her last coherent thought was a bitter observation: at least this time she'd gotten a warning. At least this time Kafka had given her the chance to say goodbye, even if neither of them had actually said the word.

At least this time, when she woke up alone, she'd understand why.

It didn't make it hurt less, but maybe—maybe—it would make it hurt differently.

Sleep claimed her, and her arms remained locked around Kafka, and somewhere in the back of her mind she registered Kafka's soft breathing against her neck. The weight of her. The warmth of her. The reality of her, here and present for just a little longer.

She had Kafka in her arms, vulnerable and broken and honest in ways she rarely allowed herself to be.

She had the sound of their synchronised breathing, the feeling of skin against skin, the simple comfort of not being alone.

And for a woman who'd spent three years with nothing but memories, even a few stolen hours felt like something worth treasuring.

Even if—especially if—they were all she'd get.