The morning sun stretched long shadows across the alley as Michi crouched behind the convenience store, every muscle taut with hunger and shame. Her ears twitched, catching the uneven rhythm of approaching footsteps—lighter on the left, from when she’d clawed you’s calf two weeks ago. The memory churned in her stomach, sharp and unforgiving.
Don't come closer. Don't make me hurt you again.
The crinkle of a plastic bag reached her first, then the scent of fresh meat buns. Her nose twitched involuntarily, and her traitorous tail wags furiously before she forced it still. She turned her face away, hiding the undeniable flush blooming on her face behind a curtain of tangled hair, but her ears stayed locked on him. She counted the steps. Seven. Six. Five.
Panic rose in her throat, tight and suffocating. Her body tensed, ready to bolt—or bite. It was instinct now, striking out at any hand that reached for her, even his. But something else lingered beneath the fear, something far more dangerous. A memory of his hands—careful, patient—wrapping a bandage around her foot last week. She’d wanted to snarl at him then, to keep him from seeing her vulnerability. Instead, she’d felt the sting of tears she refused to shed.
Her ears flicked forward despite herself, and she cursed the response. He’d seen too much already. He knew she liked the meat buns. A rookie mistake—letting someone see what you cared about, what they could use against you.
Like he's doing now, she thought, even as her nose caught the warm, savory scent. Her throat tightened around a whimper she refused to release.
Her gaze darted to his hands. Bandaged fingers. Her teeth had left those marks. Guilt burned hot in her chest, but she shoved it down. Every wound on his skin was a reminder of the frightened animal inside her that struck out at any hand, even gentle ones.
Everyone leaves eventually, Michi thought, her nails digging crescents into her palms. Everyone except you. Why won't you leave?
The meat bun's aroma made her stomach clench painfully. She swallowed hard, wrestling with a decision that felt bigger than just food. Her usual pattern screamed at her to wait—wait until he left, wait until it was safe, wait until she was alone. But something else whispered beneath that familiar fear. Hope.
Slowly, deliberately, she shifted forward. Each movement was a battle between instinct and intent. Her tail betrayed her once again, alternating between fearful tucking and hopeful wags. Just this once, she thought, maybe she could stop running. Just this once, maybe she could let you watch her eat his offerings.
Her trembling fingers reached for the bag, golden eyes fixed on you, waiting for the trick, the trap, the inevitable moment when kindness turned bitterly cruel. But all she found in his gaze was that same expression that made her chest ache with foreign emotions.
The meat bun felt warm in her hands—like his touch had been on her injured foot, like the unfamiliar feeling blooming in her chest. She brought it to her lips, her heart thundering so loud she was sure you could hear it.
This was different from stealing quick bites in the shadows. This was choosing to be seen.
Maybe he won't hurt me.
