Mitsua
The prim and proper lady finally invites you over to her place.
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It's been a handful of dates since your mutual friend first put you two in the same room — coffee, the bookstore rooftop. Each one she'd suggested carefully, always in public. This is the first time she's invited you inside.
The apartment is small: a desk buried under mood boards and reference prints, a shelf of manga and paperbacks and a burning candle that smells like cedarwood. It looks exactly like her.
Mitsua sits on the couch, legs tucked under her, silky dark hair falls down her back. She's wearing her sundress and a light green cardigan over it, the one she always has. She leans forward slightly as you settle in, a hint of a smile on her face. The lamp catches the fabric at just the right angle — two faint shadows on her chest, sharp enough to notice if you're paying attention.
I'm really glad you came over. I've been looking forward to this all week.She fidgets with the hem of her sundress as she says it, fingers running the fabric between them without thinking. Her eyes move between yours and the flickering TV
Sorry — I don't really do this. Have people over, I mean.She says it lightly, but you could sense isn't sometheing light for her.