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The first time they visit, she orders just a simple mint choc-chip, a lone scoop on a waffle cone. There’s nothing fancy to it at all, but he feels like he’s learned something new about her.
“What are you staring at, Jamming-Whey?” she quips from across the cafe side-street table, eyebrow quirked. Rivulets of chalky green run over her fingertips, and he finds himself hypnotised.
“Ah, nothing, nothing!” he insists, perhaps too vehemently. The whipped cream atop his own sundae is perched precariously. He ducks close to it as a distraction, catches a dollop on his nose.
She snorts at him, shakes her head. “If you say so.”
The next time, she orders hazelnut matcha, a different shade of viridian. He wonders if she just likes the colour.
She gets it in a tub this time, the dinky wooden spoon stuck next to the wafer fan at a jaunty angle. They’re sat inside this time, the slow crawl of twilight blossoming down the streets.
“You doing alright after that?” she asks him. He’d been chewed out by Aizawa, told to step up his studies if he didn’t want to fall behind the rest of the class.
He waves it off, plasters on a cheery grin. He wonders if she had taken pity on him, seen his face like a wounded puppy at the end of class. “Of course, yeah! Absolutely no worries here.”
He winks at her, adds a little bit of the Denki Kaminari flirt and charm to seal the deal. “Why Jiro, you might make me think you care about me.”
She flicks a chopped hazelnut at him, and he protests.
“Yeah, think it if you want,” she tells him, but he notices she doesn’t deny it.
The weather outside really isn’t right for ice cream, gale-force winds and the swirl of storm clouds as the summer storm rolls in.
He’d asked if she wanted to go, couldn’t bear to keep himself cooped up in the dorms any longer. She’s surprised him by saying yes.
“You didn’t get a sundae,” she says. “You always get a sundae.”
He blinks, looks down at the soda float in his hand. Two scoops of vanilla bob at the surface, bubbles fizzing off the Coca-Cola as they slowly melt.
“But you did,” he points out and she frowns. Her Knickerbocker Glory sits square between them, halfway across the table.
Outside, the windowpanes rattle as another gust blows through. Jiro tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. He sees the new piercing, neatly tucked next to her old one on the lobe.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah. I guess I fancied a change.”
He swallows, looks down at his drink again.
“Yeah,” he echoes. “Yeah, me too.”
He’s sat alone, at the countertop, idly twisting his spoon around the bottom of the glass. He tries not to let his eyes wander to the old-fashioned clock hung behind the mirrored walls, but cannot help his gaze.
It’s an hour after she said she would meet him. He might as well stop kidding himself, accept that she’s stood him up and she’s not coming.
He had wondered if she might. An ice cream as friends, and an ice cream as a date are two completely different things, and he hadn’t missed the hesitation behind her eyes when she said yes.
His spoon digs out the last garcia cherry and he pops it between his teeth. The taste is bitter on his tongue.
He’s dug his wallet out, ready to pay, when the bell tinkles above the door and he hears his name. He turns, and she’s there, panting and out of breath, still in her hero gear, a eggplant-shaped bruise splayed across her collarbone.
“Hey,” she breathes. “Sorry I’m late.”
The ring catches the light as it plays across her index finger as she drums her fingertips against the table, brow furrowed as she studies her phone. Before her, the monstrous chocolate concoction melts in the sun and he swipes a taste before it fully dissolves.
“Hey,” she says without looking up. “No digging into mine.”
“It’s not my fault you’re busy!” he protests. He gestures to his own empty parfait. “Besides, I’m done with mine.”
“That’s because you don’t get brain freeze, you absolute freak,” she says, but there’s no heat and he catches the small grin that flits across her lips. “We should get this place to do a pop-up.”
He blinks. “Pop-up for what?”
She lifts her gaze this time, fixes him with a are-you-serious? stare. “For the reception, duh.”
He blinks again. “Do they do that?”
She grins again, this time a full-bodied smile with the hint of a fang. He forgets all about the dessert between them.
“They will for us,” she assures him.
She’s riding him like an animal, circling her hips in ways that he’s pretty sure should be illegal. His chest is sticky-sweet from the chocolate sauce, and she drags a finger down his sternum, licks it slow and sensuously above him.
“ Fuuuuck , Kyoka,” he groans. “Shit, that’s so fucking…”
“Aren’t I just,” she breathily tells him, a wicked smile on her lips. He responds by planting his own palms there, coating them up before he reaches forward and squeezes her breasts in return.
Her rhythm stutters as her eyes flutter shut and he draws out a long moan as he massages them, flicks his thumb across the nipple, leaves it wet and moist beneath his touch. He pulls his fingers away, and a long string of syrup comes with them.
“Y’know, I didn’t think we’d be having food sex on the honeymoon,” she confesses later, when they’re both stood together in the shower, soaping off the excess.
He blinks, tries to rub the suds out of his eyes and fails. She laughs, a musical note that echoes in the small confines that surrounds them.
“I always thought it would be ice cream,” he admits, and she laughs again.
“You’re too sweet already, Denki,” she tells him. He must beam like an idiot, as she chuckles again and swats him gently with her jack. “But you’re sweet enough for me to love.”