Work Text:
The moon hung fat and full over St. Dominic’s, casting silver light across Yumeko’s dorm. She was sprawled sideways on her bed; a deck of cards fanned across her chest like armour. It was almost midnight—prime time for regrets.
A key clicked in the door. Mary burst in like a hurricane in designer boots. Her eyes flicked to Yumeko, her cards, the dark circles under her eyes. She sighed dramatically. “You look like you lost a bet.”
“I did lose a bet,” Yumeko drawled. “Against myself.” Stupid pretty Russian. She thought bitterly.
Mary flopped onto the bed, kicking aside the poker chips and ignoring Yumeko’s scowl. “Oh, pathetic. I know what you need.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Yumeko flipped a card over her shoulder.
Mary’s grin was dangerous. “I’m not asking.” She whipped out her phone and within seconds, Yumeko’s phone buzzed. Mary had Airdropped an app: Tinder.
Yumeko stared. “You did not.”
“Oh, I did.” Mary cackled, grabbing Yumeko’s phone and launching the app. She started swiping before Yumeko could wrestle it back.
“Do you have any hot selfies?” Mary asked while she flipped through Yumeko’s gallery. Only the stumble upon pure gold.
“Yumeko!!” She squealed. Horror flashed across the other girl’s face as she lunged for the phone.
“No!”
But Mary had already seen it. A photo of the Ice Queen herself, covertly taken, while she was gazing out the window. It was a good photo. The gentle sunset glow cast a golden light against Kira’s pale features, it softened her.
Mary had an evil look on her face. “I won’t tell a soul if you create a profile.”
“Fucking fine.”
They huddled shoulder-to-shoulder on Yumeko’s bed, swiping through the predictable circus that was St. Dom’s on Tinder:
Ryan popped up first, his profile picture of him kneeling beside a fountain with the caption: “Looking for a princess.”
Yumeko giggled. “He’d cry if I messaged him.”
Next was Suki, practically glowing in nightclub selfies. Bio: “Love me or hate me, either way you’re thinking of me.”
Mary snorted. “Iconic.”
“Do you think Rex knows about this?”
“He probably helped create it”
Chad appeared next, shirtless on a yacht. “God,” Yumeko groaned. “Is this how St.Doms gets an STD crisis?”
Mary swiped left so hard the phone nearly cracked.
They were breathless with laughter when Yumeko eventually caught her breath. “This is ridiculous.”
Mary’s eyes glittered. “You need someone to shake you up. You’ve been obsessed with you-know-who for months.”
Yumeko tensed. Images of dark hair and ice-blue eyes flashed behind her eyelids. Kira. The girl who looked at her like she was chaos incarnate—both temptation and threat. The girl who’d never let her close.
“I’m fine,” Yumeko lied. “I’m not obsessed.”
Mary’s smirk softened. “No, you’re not. Let’s find you someone. Someone who’ll set your heart racing, and won’t – you know- skin you alive. Bet you won’t swipe right on the next profile.”
Yumeko squared her shoulders. “Bet?”
But then, it appeared.
A profile unlike any other. No name, no age, no bio—just a username: Iris.
Photos scrolled past: stormy clouds, empty school corridors lit by moonlight, a single iris blooming in an abandoned greenhouse. Each shot haunting, lonely, and mesmerizing.
Mary hesitated. Even she felt it—the pull. “Creepy,” she whispered.
Yumeko’s pulse skittered. Her finger hovered.
Mary recovered, voice teasing. “No guts, no glory, Jabami.”
Yumeko exhaled sharply at the challenge and a dangerous grin threatened to break out.
She swiped right.
A second later, the screen flashed: It’s a Match!
Yumeko stared at the glowing It’s a Match! banner like it might bite her. Her heart hammered a manic rhythm against her ribs.
Mary leaned over, eyes wide with disbelief. “You actually swiped. And matched.”
Yumeko didn’t respond. Her thumb hovered over the message box, mind a mess of excitement and dread. Why did this blank profile, these haunting photos, make her feel like she’d just jumped off a cliff?
Mary elbowed her. “Well? You gonna chicken out now?”
Yumeko’s grin turned sharp. “Never.”
She typed carefully, heart in her throat:
Yumeko: “I like your photos. But you don’t seem like someone who wants to be found.”
A pause. The minutes stretched, each one like a vice tightening around her chest. Then her phone buzzed.
Iris: “I like staying hidden. Makes it easier to watch the world without it watching me.”
The words were cool, but not cold. Yumeko could almost feel the person on the other side—smart, wary, sharp-edged.
Mary clutched her arm. “Oh, they’re good.”
Yumeko fired back: “So you’re a stalker?”
Iris: “Would it scare you if I was?”
Yumeko: “Depends. Are you tall, dark, and dangerous?”
Iris: “Define dark? Dangerous is a matter of perspective.”
Mary howled with laughter, but Yumeko’s smile wavered. This felt too familiar. She swallowed, pushing the thought away.
As Mary turned in for the night, Yumeko lay in the dark, phone screen painting her face ghostly blue. She tapped a new message.
Yumeko: “What do you see when you watch the world?”
A pause so long she wondered if Iris had fallen asleep. Then:
Iris: “People who pretend they’re fearless. People who break themselves for attention. And one person who might actually be as reckless as they seem.”
Yumeko’s breath caught. One person. Me? Her fingers shook as she typed.
Yumeko: “That sounds lonely.”
Iris: “It is. But sometimes it’s better than letting anyone close enough to hurt you.”
Yumeko closed her eyes, heart aching. The words hit too close to home. She could almost hear Kira’s voice in them—low, measured, guarded.
By morning, the messages felt like a fever dream. Yumeko trudged into the council room, bleary-eyed, only to freeze when Kira swept in—hair immaculate, eyes glacial.
Yumeko’s stomach twisted at the sight of the other girl. Then Kira spoke, voice clipped as ever. “You’re late.”
Yumeko forced a smirk. “Miss me that much?”
Kira’s eyes flickered—just for a second—and Yumeko’s chest squeezed. But the moment was gone, replaced by icy indifference.
It can never be, Yumeko told herself. She’d never…
But as soon as class ended, her phone buzzed again:
Iris: “Rough morning?”
She blinked. Had Iris guessed? Her pulse stuttered. She looked around her, was the mystery girl around her now?
Yumeko: “You have no idea.”
Iris: “Tell me.”
The days slipped by in a haze of stolen moments and midnight confessions.
Every evening, Yumeko would lie curled in her duvet, thumb brushing the screen, waiting. And every evening, Iris never disappointed.
Yumeko: “What do you listen to when it rains?”
Iris: “Something sad enough to match the sky. You?”
Yumeko: “Something loud enough to drown the thunder.”
Iris: “You like drowning things, don’t you?”
Every reply felt like it was from someone who knew her. Like Kira, who once murmured to her after a stormy debate: You’re the type to laugh at lightning, aren’t you?
At council, Kira’s composure began to crack. She snapped at Chad for speaking out of turn, slammed her ledger shut with white-knuckled hands, and avoided Yumeko’s eyes so fiercely it was like staring too long would shatter her.
Another night, Yumeko found herself typing with shaky fingers.
Yumeko: “Do you believe in love?”
Iris: “Not in the way people talk about it.”
Yumeko: “What way do you believe in?”
Iris: “The kind that destroys you. And makes you want more.”
Yumeko stared at the glowing words until her vision blurred. Her chest ached. It sounds like… her. But the thought scared her more than it thrilled.
By day, the messages haunted her. She caught herself grinning at her phone between classes, smiling into her locker, even humming a song Iris had recommended.
And Kira noticed.
One afternoon, as Yumeko slumped into her chair in the council room, Kira’s eyes flicked to her phone with a sharpness that made Yumeko’s heart lurch.
“Who’s that,” Kira said coolly, voice low but slicing.
“None of your business,” Yumeko shot back, cheeks hot. She tried to smirk, but it felt brittle.
Kira’s eyes narrowed. “Try to focus, Jabami.”
Riri’s gaze darted curiously between them from behind her mask. Mary raised an eyebrow, but kept quiet—though Yumeko caught her smirk.
The afternoon council meeting dragged on, the sun already sinking outside the tall windows. Yumeko drummed her fingers against her phone under the table, glancing up at the heated debate swirling around the room.
Mary and Chad were bickering over event logistics, Runa was threatening to charge interest on loaned budget funds, and Kira sat at the head of the table, eyes icy, jaw tight.
Yumeko’s stomach twisted with irritation. The conversation was veering away from what she’d been hoping to suggest, her idea buried under egos and noise. She dropped her eyes to her phone and typed:
Yumeko: “Everyone’s changing the subject. I’m going to lose my nerve.”
Minutes later, Iris’ reply appeared like a lifeline:
Iris: “Why don’t you tell them your fundraising idea? I thought it was great.”
Yumeko sucked in a breath, glancing at the screen. Great? The word made her chest ache with a strange warmth. She lifted her head and didn’t seeing Kira’s haste to sit upright.
“If I may,” Yumeko said suddenly, voice cutting through the din. The room fell silent in surprise. “What if we host a carnival with games of chance? Winnings go to local charities—high risk, high reward. It’ll draw attention and show we’re not just here to take from the community.”
Silence reigned for a heartbeat.
Then Mary nodded, Suki started game ideas, and even Dori’s eyes lit up. But Yumeko barely noticed. Her gaze was locked on Kira, who stared back at her like she’d just grown another head.
Kira’s expression was haunted—an emotion too raw, too vulnerable, flickering across her usually impassive face before she schooled it into a mask.
But Yumeko caught it. And her heart thundered.
That night, Yumeko’s phone buzzed as she brushed her teeth.
Iris: “You were quiet today.”
Yumeko hesitated. How did Iris always seem to know?
Yumeko: “Long day. Council politics.”
Iris: “What do you want to do when the day ends?”
Yumeko: “I want to breathe without thinking about anyone else.”
Iris: “I’d like to watch you breathe.”
Yumeko’s knees nearly buckled in the middle of the bathroom.
Kira’s composure was wearing thin. Her comments grew sharper, her gaze lingering too long when Yumeko laughed at something on her phone.
One morning, Kira’s hand trembled so slightly as she flipped a page in the council ledger that only Riri, silent as a shadow, seemed to notice.
Kira snapped at Chad again. Her mask slipped further. She barely looked at Yumeko, but when she did, her gaze was haunted, frantic.
Yumeko: Sometimes I wonder if your eyes follow me in the halls.
Iris: I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off of you since you arrived.
Yumeko’s chest tightened.
The weekend sun slanted low through the library windows, casting warm, lazy light over stacks of textbooks and half-finished assignments. Yumeko should have been revising with Michael and Mary, but instead, they were crowded around Yumeko’s phone, Tinder open.
Michael clicked his tongue. “Three. There are three people at St. Dom’s named Iris.”
Mary snorted. “One’s a Year 8. Unless you’ve suddenly developed a taste for literal children—”
“Gross,” Yumeko groaned, slumping over the table. “This is stupid. I’m going mad over a stranger.”
Mary patted her shoulder with mock sympathy. “You fell for a mystery. Classic.”
Michael looked thoughtful. “They could be using a fake name, you know.”
Yumeko’s head snapped up. Fake name. Her fingers trembled as she opened their chat.
Meanwhile, Kira lingered by the door, eyes like winter ice on the trio. She looked like she wanted to say something but swallowed it down, turning on her heel.
That night Yumeko found herself typing a question that had been gnawing at her since the first message:
Yumeko: “Is Iris your real name?”
A pause. Yumeko’s heart stuttered.
Iris: “No. It’s my favourite song and flower.”
Yumeko’s head spun. It felt too intimate, too raw. Like Iris was laying herself bare for her alone.
Yumeko: “You don’t want the world to see you? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”
Iris: “Maybe I just want you to know who I am.”
The next morning, Yumeko barely registered Ryan’s cheerful greeting or Mary’s snarky commentary in the corridor. Her mind kept drifting to Iris’s words. Over and over.
She didn’t even notice Kira standing outside the council room until she nearly crashed into her.
Kira stepped back like she’d been burned, eyes narrowing as they flicked over Yumeko. “Watch it.”
The icy tone made Yumeko flinch, but what startled her more was the faint flush colouring Kira’s pale cheeks—gone almost as soon as it appeared.
That night, Yumeko’s phone glowed underneath her blanket.
Yumeko: "You’ve never told me what sweets you like."
Iris: "Dark chocolate with sea salt."
Just like Kira.
Yumeko chewed her lip.
"What keeps you up at night?" Yumeko wanted to throw her phone when she sent the message.
Iris: "Memories. Regrets. Dreams I shouldn’t have."
Yumeko: "You sound haunted."
Iris: "I am"
Yumeko: "How so?"
Iris: “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Yumeko’s fingers hovered, breath caught. Neither could she.
In the quiet space between heartbeats, Yumeko realised she was falling for someone she might never meet, someone who would never drop the mask.
But the idea of this voice going silent felt worse than any gamble she’d ever lost.
Days bled into each other as Yumeko’s world narrowed to the glowing screen in her hand.
Between classes and council meetings, her thumb hovered over Iris’ chat. They talked about everything—favourite songs, childhood memories, secret fears. Yumeko found herself smiling like an idiot at Iris’ dry humour. She laughed so hard she almost fell off her bed when Iris called Chad “a golden retriever possessed by a frat demon.”
Their conversations were electric, addictive. Yumeko typed faster than she thought, matching Iris’ wit beat for beat.
Late one night, Yumeko confessed something she’d never said aloud.
Yumeko: “When I was little, I thought if I loved someone enough, they’d love me back. Seems stupid now.”
Iris: “It’s not stupid. You just have a heart bigger than this school.”
Her chest ached. She could almost hear Kira’s voice whispering those words into the dark. Her heart ached.
Another afternoon, Yumeko sat slouched in the library after a council session, fingers flying across her phone.
Iris: “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m enough.”
Yumeko: “That’s because you are. You’re enough. More than enough.”
Iris: “I watched your walk to class today, I wish I had been the reason you smiled.”
Yumeko stared at the message until the letters blurred. She wanted more. Needed more.
Their exchanges grew longer, stretching into dawn. Yumeko began to see Iris in every quiet shadow. The anonymity that had felt exciting now felt like a chain around her heart.
She tried to drop hints.
Yumeko: “You remind me of someone.”
Iris: “Good or bad?”
Yumeko: “Both. She makes me feel like I’m alive and doomed at the same time.”
There was a long pause.
Iris: “Then I hope you tell her.”
Yumeko’s pulse pounded. What if I already am?
A few days later, after hours of restless pacing, Yumeko’s frustration boiled over. She typed furiously:
Yumeko: “Don’t you think it’s unfair that you know who I am, but I don’t know who you are?”
She squeezed her phone so hard her knuckles turned white. The minutes crawled. She reread her message again and again.
Finally, Iris responded:
Iris: “I know it’s unfair.”
Iris: “I’m sorry.”
And then… nothing.
Hours passed. Days. Yumeko’s messages went unanswered. She felt like she was unraveling, each silent minute another thread pulled loose. She checked her phone obsessively, her mood darkening with every empty screen.
During council meetings, she snapped at Dori, zoned out when Mary cracked jokes, and felt Kira’s eyes on her—piercing, unreadable.
The silence from Iris stretched into a suffocating fog. Yumeko felt its weight pressing on her every hour of every day.
Monday:
Yumeko sat slumped in her council seat, eyes fixed on the glossy surface of the meeting table. Chad rambled about a new club idea—something involving jet skis and questionable legality—but Yumeko barely heard him.
She caught Kira’s gaze flicking toward her. Those icy blue eyes lingered for a heartbeat too long before darting away. The hesitation was new. But instead of comfort, it sent panic skittering up Yumeko’s spine. She pressed her lips together to keep from blurting: Why are you looking at me like that?
Tuesday:
They crossed paths in the hallway. Yumeko’s pulse stuttered when Kira’s shoulder brushed hers. Kira stiffened as if electrocuted, nearly stumbling in her haste to move away.
For the rest of the day, Yumeko burned with confusion and anger. Why is she avoiding me?
Wednesday:
During lunch, Mary tried to cheer her up by making a spectacle out of tossing grapes into his mouth from across the table. Dori cheered, Runa placed bets, and Chad howled with laughter.
But Yumeko’s phone lay dark beside her tray, no new messages. Her appetite vanished. She pushed food around her plate and kept glancing at Kira, seated a few tables away, scribbling notes with a white-knuckled grip.
Yumeko could feel Kira’s gaze land on her every so often, sharp and desperate, but each time she looked up, Kira’s expression was a mask of false indifference.
Thursday:
Suki droned on about the upcoming charity event, but Yumeko only half-listened. Her phone buzzed once—her heart leapt—only to see a promotional email. Disgusted, she shoved it back into her pocket.
Later, she caught Kira staring at her as the meeting dragged on. Their eyes locked across the room. Yumeko felt everything inside her crumble. She wanted to scream, to march over and shake Kira until she admitted… something. Anything.
But Kira blinked, shuttered her gaze, and resumed taking notes like Yumeko was invisible.
Friday:
Yumeko stumbled into the council room late, hair messy, eyes rimmed red. She’d barely slept, spent half the night pacing, rewriting messages to Iris she never sent.
She dropped into her seat. Mary leaned over, whispering worriedly. “You look like death.”
“I feel worse,” Yumeko croaked.
Kira cleared her throat sharply. “Can we begin?” Her voice cut through the air like a blade, but her eyes flicked to Yumeko’s hunched figure. For a fraction of a second, they softened. Then the frost slammed back into place.
That night, Yumeko curled up under her blankets, phone clutched against her chest like a lifeline. Her thumb hovered over Iris’ chat.
Yumeko: “I wish you were here. I just wanted to know who you are. Please… say something.”
She hit send before she lost her nerve.
Across campus:
Kira stood alone in her dark dorm, phone screen bright in her trembling hands. Her thumb hovered over the chat. The desperation in Yumeko’s words cracked something deep inside her.
She could almost hear Yumeko’s voice, raw with hurt.
Kira: “I’m sorry.”
Her fingers hovered. She swallowed, throat tight.
Kira: “Can you forgive me for being so cruel?”
============================================================================
The next morning dawned pale and cold, but Yumeko felt no warmth. She sat alone under the oak by the quad, knees pulled to her chest. The air smelled of wet grass and coming rain.
Her phone buzzed once.
Iris: “I don’t think you’ll be happy when you know who I am.”
Yumeko’s breath caught. Tears stung her eyes, slipping hot down her cheeks.
Yumeko: “Isn’t that my decision?”
In her dorm Kira paced her room like a caged animal, hair wild, eyes rimmed with sleepless shadows. Her phone burned in her hand.
She could hear every word Yumeko had ever said to her—every laugh, every teasing lilt. The thought of losing that terrified her more than her father, more than failure, more than anything.
Iris: “What if I told you I was the last person you’d want to love?”
Yumeko’s response came almost instantly, like she’d been waiting with bated breath:
Yumeko: “Then I’d say you don’t know me at all.”
Kira’s knees gave out. She sank onto her bed, phone pressed to her chest. She thought of the way Yumeko’s eyes glowed with reckless hope, how her laughter filled the council room with light. How she’d stood up to Kira when no one else dared.
How she’d seen her—not the perfect daughter or the ruthless president, but the girl beneath all the armour.
Kira’s chest heaved with silent sobs.
Yumeko drifted through the quad, phone clutched like a talisman. Her mind spun with everything—Kira’s distance, Iris’ messages. The impossible possibility clawed at her. She couldn’t keep living like this.
A message flashed on her screen:
Iris: “Meet me. Midnight. The old greenhouse.”
Yumeko’s heart stopped.
The air in the council room was stifling.
Rain lashed the tall windows, thunder grumbling overhead like the gods themselves were restless. The entire council sat ringed around the mahogany table, but the usual easy banter was gone, replaced by awkward silence.
Yumeko nearly vibrated with energy, a restless, simmering anticipation dancing in her eyes. Every so often she glanced at Kira—who avoided her gaze like it burned. Kira sat stiffly at the head of the table, dark hair pulled back in a severe knot, fingers drumming out a staccato beat on her notebook. Her icy blue eyes flicked over everyone but never landed on Yumeko.
Mary tapped her pen against her lips, eyes darting between the two. Even she, with her head usually full of snark and schemes, fell uncharacteristically quiet.
“President?” Runa finally ventured, his voice cautious. “You wanted to discuss the budget allocations for the charity gala?”
Kira snapped her head up like a startled deer. “What?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Right. The… the budget.” She swallowed hard, rifling through her papers with jerky hands.
Chad slouched dramatically in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Dude, what’s with the vibe? It’s like someone died.”
Suki sniffed, all flamboyant disdain. “Or worse. Someone’s in love.”
Kira’s head jerked up so fast the chair nearly tipped. Her eyes darted straight to Yumeko—caught—and then away again. The flash of raw, wounded panic in those pale eyes made Yumeko’s breath hitch. It confirmed everything she was too afraid to hope for.
But the room fell silent as Kira slammed her folder closed, voice trembling with barely leashed emotion. “Focus. We have an event to finalise.”
The thunder cracked directly overhead, rattling the windows. Yumeko caught Mary’s eye, and even the other girl looked unnerved.
Dori cleared her throat loudly. “Look, Prez, it’s not like you to be… like this.” She gestured vaguely at Kira, who looked dangerously close to shattering.
Riri, ever silent at Kira’s shoulder, watched her sister with dark eyes narrowed behind her mask. She shifted closer, subtle but protective.
Chad looked between Kira and Yumeko, brows pinching. “Did something happen between you two?”
Yumeko opened her mouth, heart hammering— she didn’t even know what she was going to say.
“Enough.” Kira snapped and slammed her hands down. “I will not have this event ruined by your inability to string two brain cells together.”
Yumeko snapped her mouth shut and stared at the student council president with wide eyes. They were so blue now, fear and something unhinged bubbled beneath them. Midnight. Yumeko thought. You can’t hide then.
A storm had broken by midnight, leaving the world roaring and glistening. Lightning streamed through broken clouds, turning the St. Dominic’s campus into a dreamscape of silvered shadows.
Yumeko slipped out of the dorm, heart pounding. Her feet carried her to the greenhouse across campus. Glass panes dripped with rain, the scent of damp earth and crushed petals heavy in the air.
She stepped inside, breath fogging in the cool night. Her boots squelched faintly against the moss-covered floor. Rows of irises glowed pale blue under the moonlight, ghostly and delicate, swaying like dancers to an inaudible song. Yumeko reached out, fingertips brushing the soft petals. “You’re her favourite,” she whispered to the flowers, voice trembling.
“You always talk to flowers?”
The voice was quiet, sharp—and achingly familiar. Yumeko spun around so fast her heel slipped on the wet stone. Kira stood in the aisle, hair down for once, black silk robe tied haphazardly around her slim frame. Her icy eyes glowed under the moon, but they were stormy, unsettled, searching.
Yumeko’s breath caught. “I come here when I can’t sleep,” she said softly.
Kira’s gaze dropped to Yumeko’s lips, lingered a heartbeat too long. “And why can’t you sleep?”
Yumeko stepped closer, boots squishing in the moss. “Maybe I miss someone,” she said, voice low and raw. Her eyes locked with Kira’s, daring her to look away. “Maybe I can’t stop thinking about… this girl.”
Kira flinched, her mask cracking at the edges. “You think she would come here?” Her voice was hoarse, betraying a tremor of fear.
“Maybe,” Yumeko said, inching closer still. She smelled rain on Kira’s hair, warm skin beneath the chill night. “I think she might like the irises. Maybe she can’t sleep either. Maybe… she is as scared as I am.”
Kira’s breath hitched, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard. The moonlight painted her features in fragile silver. Her lips parted, words trembling on the brink. “Yumeko, I—”
Lightning flared outside, illuminating the greenhouse in a brief, blinding flash. Thunder rolled low, distant now but still close enough to shake the glass.
In the silence that followed, Yumeko reached out, fingertips brushing Kira’s cheek. “I don’t care who you are,” she whispered fiercely. “I don’t care if you’re Iris, or the Ice Queen, or both. I just want you.”
Kira’s eyes fluttered shut, a ragged breath escaping her. She leaned into Yumeko’s touch like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she said, voice cracking. “You don’t want me.”
Yumeko’s thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, gentle but unyielding. “Believe me, I do,” she breathed. “Or don’t believe. But don’t you dare run from me.”
A shaky laugh slipped from Kira’s lips—half a sob, half the ghost of something softer. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are,” Yumeko teased, voice husky with relief and adrenaline.
Kira huffed out a laugh and nodded, her throat bobbed, and she voice seemed to shake ever so gently. “How long have you known?”
A soft smile broke onto Yumeko’s face. “I hoped Kira,” she admitted as she traced the other girl’s jaw with her finger. “I had hoped it was you from the beginning.”
Their eyes locked, fierce and unguarded. The irises swayed around them, rain-damp and fragrant, as Yumeko rose on her toes and pressed her lips to Kira’s. The kiss was soft but electric, trembling with everything they’d both been too afraid to say. Kira gasped into it, hands coming up to cup Yumeko’s face like she was precious, irreplaceable.
When they broke apart, breathless, the world felt quiet and impossibly right. Kira’s eyes shone, blue as the storm-washed sky. “I’ve never wanted anything like I want you,” she whispered.
Yumeko’s answering smile was radiant, eyes alight with wicked glee and aching tenderness. “Then don’t let me go.”
They stood in the moonlit greenhouse, foreheads pressed together, as the last raindrops pattered down and the irises bloomed bright as dawn.