Three seconds.
That's how long I stood there like a malfunctioning robot, my hands still cupping the warm curve of Kimiko's thighs, her legs wrapped around my waist. Three seconds. My legendary composure went bankrupt. The system just... stopped.
Do something, you idiot.
But my brain—the same tactical instrument that had dismantled U.A.'s exam—was feeding me nothing but corrupted data.
Kimiko's lips were still parted, her breathing shallow. A strand of black and white hair had fallen across her flushed cheek. The kitchen light caught the moisture in her eyes, turning them into liquid amber.
Move. Say something. Anything.
Nothing.
Then the connection broke. The shock in her eyes turned into panic.
"I—I'm sorry." The words tumbled out in a panicked rush as she scrambled out of my arms, her feet hitting the linoleum with a thud that echoed through our tiny kitchen. "I just... I was so happy, and... I didn't mean..."
She backed away from me, her hands flying up to cover her burning cheeks. Those same hands that had been tangled in my hair moments ago, that had pulled me closer, that had—
"I'm sorry, Yu-yu."
She spun on her heel and fled. Her bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
And then there was silence.
I stood alone in our cramped kitchen, surrounded by the lingering smell of fried rice and soap bubbles, staring at the closed door like it might spontaneously combust. My lips still tingled. My hands still remembered the warmth of her skin.
Well. That happened.
The ghost of her kiss was branded on my mouth. Sweet. Desperate. Real in a way that made every other interaction I'd had in this world feel like amateur theater.
She's your sister, you degenerate.
That thought should have triggered an emergency shutdown. Disgust, shame, the hardwired human protocol for crossing that line. Instead, it felt... hollow. Like reading lines from a script I'd never actually memorized.
Because here was the uncomfortable truth my mind couldn't dodge: the "sister" label had never been a feeling. It was a firewall. A piece of mental code I'd written to keep my own instincts in check.
And her kiss had blown a hole clean through my defenses.
Now thoughts I'd carefully walled off came flooding through the breach. The way she looked in those short shorts she wore around the apartment. How her face lit up when she talked about her dreams. The casual touches, the shared meals, the domestic intimacy that had felt so natural and so...
I forced myself to move, walking toward her door. My mouth opened, ready to deploy some witty deflection. Something like "If that's how you celebrate all my victories, I'll have to start winning more often." Turn the awkward moment into a joke, reset the dynamic, pretend nothing had changed.
The words died in my throat.
They felt cheap. Wrong. Like trying to use counterfeit chips at a high-stakes table. She'd kissed me not because I'd manipulated her into it, but because she'd been overwhelmed by genuine emotion.
And I had no script for genuine emotion.
When did I become such a coward?
I couldn't knock on her door. Couldn't call out some casual comment. Couldn't pretend this was just another problem to solve with clever words and strategic thinking.
But I have to do something. Anything.
So I started cleaning.
The dishes from dinner still sat in the sink, abandoned when Kimiko had launched herself at me. I turned on the hot water, letting the steam fog up the small window above the basin.
Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.
I dried each dish carefully, putting them back in their designated spots in our tiny cabinet.
When the last plate was put away, I stared at the spotless kitchen. It looked exactly like it had a few hours ago, before U.A.'s acceptance letter, before the kiss, before everything changed.
I needed to make a move. Something that acknowledged what had happened without forcing a confrontation. Something that said I'm not running away, but I'm not pushing either.
The tea. Kimiko's herbal blend that she drank when she was stressed about job interviews or bills or the future. The one that smelled like chamomile and honey and made her shoulders relax when she'd been carrying the weight of the world.
I put the kettle on, measuring out the loose leaves into two cups. The ritual was soothing, each step familiar and safe. Water temperature. Steeping time. The delicate balance that turned bitter herbs into something comforting.
While the tea brewed, I listened for sounds from her room. Nothing. No crying, no pacing, no angry muttering.
She's probably mortified. Convinced she ruined everything.
The kettle whistled. I poured the hot water, watching the steam curl up from both cups. The smell filled the kitchen—earthy, sweet, calming. I carried one cup to her door, setting it carefully on the small table we used for mail and keys. Then I retreated to the couch with my own, settling into the familiar cushions that had been my bed for months.
The tea was too hot to drink, so I just held it, letting the warmth seep through the ceramic into my palms. A simple offering. A silent message that we were still us, whatever that meant now.
I stared at her closed door, sipping the too-hot tea and burning my tongue. Every familiar sound—the neighbor's television, the hum of our ancient refrigerator, the distant traffic—seemed amplified in the silence between us.
So what now, genius? What's the play here?
I didn't have one. For the first time since arriving in this world, I was operating without a clear path to victory. Just sitting on a lumpy couch, drinking tea that was still too hot, waiting for my sister—was she still my sister?—to decide what came next.
She was Kimiko. The woman who worked multiple jobs to keep us afloat. Who believed in my potential. Who made special fried rice to celebrate my victories and herbal tea to calm my nerves.
Who kissed me like she'd been wanting to for months.
And you wanted to kiss her back.
I set down my tea cup with a sharp click against the coffee table.
I had wanted to kiss her back. Still wanted to. The firewall I'd built between "sister" and "woman" had been compromised beyond repair, and now I was seeing her clearly for the first time.
This is so messed up.
But messed up didn't make it less real. The attraction I'd been suppressing wasn't going away just because it was inconvenient or inappropriate or potentially destructive to the only stable relationship I had in this world.
I leaned back against the couch cushions, closing my eyes.
The tea had gone cold. Her door remained closed. And somewhere in the silence between us, everything we'd built together was quietly falling apart.