"Fine, fine," Makoto sighed, a wave of relief washing over him. At least he wouldn't have to confess his deepest, most depraved desires in the middle of the produce aisle.
"So… what do you want for dinner? I'll cook, as promised, but don't expect any fancy Michelin-star food."
Yuna skipped ahead, her twin-tails bouncing as she scanned the meat section with the predatory focus of a seasoned hunter.
"Curry," she declared, her hand decisively snatching the most expensive cut of Wagyu beef from the refrigerated display.
"Your curry." She turned to him, her smile turning saccharine and deeply unsettling. "Because when you make it, it tastes like… home."
The word, so simple and domestic, hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
She dumped the meat into his basket along with a selection of suspiciously phallic-looking vegetables.
"Oh! And cook shirtless," she added, her finger poking the soft flesh of his belly. "I like watching your fat jiggle while you chop the onions."
As they moved toward the spice aisle, she draped herself over his arm, her body language shifting from bratty stepsister to possessive girlfriend with a jarring, electrifying speed.
"Use my mom's recipe," she whispered, her voice suddenly, shockingly soft. "The one from when we were kids."
Her eyes met his, and for a single, breathtaking heartbeat, the masks were gone.
There was no teasing, no blackmail, just a raw, unguarded vulnerability that stole the air from his lungs. It was a glimpse of the girl she was, the girl she could be, and it was more intoxicating than any of her games.
They got home to an empty house. Their mother, conveniently, was working a night shift. The air was thick with a tense, domestic anticipation.
"Fine," Makoto said, tying on an apron. "Time for me to get this cooking done."
He took off his shirt as requested, the cool air of the kitchen a strange contrast to the heat coiling in his stomach.
He started chopping the carrots and onions, the familiar, rhythmic motion a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos of his emotions. "Make yourself useful, or just slack off with your gacha game. Don't mind me."
Yuna, however, didn't slack off. She hopped onto one of the kitchen stools, but instead of pulling out her phone, she watched him. Really watched.
Her gaze traced the beads of sweat that formed on his back as he chopped, the way his belly folded when he leaned over the counter.
She kicked her feet idly, the worn-out bunny slippers he'd bought her last Christmas bouncing with the motion.
"You missed a spot," she murmured, her voice a low purr, as he wiped his brow with the back of his arm.
Before he could react, she was behind him, her small, cool hands smoothing over the sweat on his lower back.
"Gross," she added, her tone dripping with mock disgust, but she didn't stop.
Her touch lingered, her fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans with a feather-light pressure.
When he hissed, his eyes stinging from the onion fumes, she surprised him. She rose on her tiptoes, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss between his shoulder blades.
"Crybaby," she mocked, but her cheek rested against his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a silent, comforting presence.
As the curry simmered, its rich, familiar aroma filling the kitchen, she set the table with a jarring, almost surreal domesticity.
The candles were lit, their mismatched plates arranged just so. She looked like a wife preparing a special dinner for her husband.
The thought was both terrifying and deeply, deeply alluring.
"Hurry up, fatso," she called, her voice sharp, but there was no real bite to it. "I'm starving… and not just for your dick tonight."
"Here, start eating," Makoto said, his voice a little rough as he placed the steaming plate of freshly cooked curry and rice in front of her.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, fulfilling the final, most damning part of their contract: "And I would love to creampie you again tonight."
He quickly retreated to his seat on the opposite side of the table, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"So," he began, his voice a little shaky, "was that enough payment for that GFE package, love?"
Yuna choked on her first spoonful of curry, coughing violently as her face turned a brilliant shade of crimson.
"You...!" She waved her spoon at him like a weapon, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else… something he couldn't quite name. "That doesn't count! I said over candlelight, not..."
She gestured wildly at the flickering candles on the table. "...okay, fine, it counts."
She took another bite, quieter now, her eyes fixed on her plate. The curry tasted exactly like their mother's, the recipe they had both grown up with, a taste of shared history, of a simpler, more innocent time.
"…It's good," she admitted grudgingly, her voice barely audible. "Better than takeout."
When she finally looked up, her expression was unreadable, her usual masks of mockery and seduction completely gone.
"The GFE package includes…" She counted off on her fingers, her voice soft and hesitant. "Hand-holding, check. Public humiliation, check. Home-cooking…"
She took another spoonful, a thoughtful expression on her face. "…check."
Her foot found his under the table, a gentle, questioning touch. "What's left is…"
Her voice dropped to a whisper, the words hanging in the air between them, heavy and fragile. "…actual girlfriend stuff. No roleplay. No costumes."
Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of crimson. "Just us."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken possibilities. They finished their dinner without another word, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.
"Well," Makoto said finally, breaking the spell. "Let's go back to my room, then? You can take a bath first, while I finish cleaning these."
Yuna nodded, a strange shyness in her movements as she stood from the table. "I'll use your shampoo," she murmured, gathering the lingerie bag from their shopping trip. "The one that smells like you."
She paused at the kitchen doorway, looking back at him with an expression he had never seen on her before: vulnerable, almost nervous.
"Don't take too long cleaning up, okay?" Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it. "I don't want to be alone for too long."
Twenty minutes later, after he'd scrubbed the dishes with a frantic, nervous energy, he heard the bathroom door creak open.
Steam billowed out into the hallway as Yuna appeared. She was wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts, a faded band tee that hung to her mid-thigh, the fabric clinging to her still-damp skin.
Her hair was wet, clinging to her shoulders, and she smelled like his soap, his shampoo. She smelled like she belonged to him.
"Your turn," she said quietly, but as he passed her in the narrow hallway, her hand darted out, her fingers catching his wrist. "I'll… wait in your room."
When he finally emerged from his own bath, his mind a chaotic swirl of anticipation and a deep, terrifying tenderness. He found her sitting on the edge of his bed, her small frame looking almost lost in the familiar, cluttered space.
"Well," he began, scratching the back of his hair, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate. "This is a bit… awkward, isn't it?"
"Not like it's our first time doing it… but, well, it's the first time without any costumes or roleplay."
Yuna kept her eyes fixed on her knees, her fingers twisting in the hem of the oversized shirt. "Shut up," she muttered, but there was no heat in it. "It's just… different."
She scooted closer until her thigh was pressing against his, her damp hair leaving dark spots on his shoulder. "No Klee voice. No Ganyu cosplay."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Just me. Is that okay?"
Before he could answer, she climbed into his lap: a familiar move, but slower this time, more deliberate, almost hesitant.
Her small hands framed his face, her touch surprisingly gentle. "Don't you dare say it's awkward," she breathed, her eyes searching his, a silent, desperate plea. "You asked for the girlfriend experience."
Her lips brushed his: a tentative, testing touch, a stark contrast to the biting, demanding kisses from before.
"So be my boyfriend tonight," she murmured against his mouth, the words a fragile, terrifying promise. "Just for tonight."