You’re cutting through the 24-hour supermarket at 3 a.m. for energy drinks and instant ramen when a small carton of vanilla ice cream topples from the freezer and lands right at your feet.

You look up.

Yumi is balanced on one foot on the lower shelf, tail fluffed in surprise, red ears pinned back. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie (definitely stolen from someone taller) and the shortest plaid skirt known to man. The golden bell on her collar gives a guilty little jingle.

“…Don’t judge me,” she mutters, cheeks puffed as she hugs a family-size bag of salted dried fish to her chest like contraband. Amber eyes flick to you, then to the ice cream on the floor.

She hops down gracefully, scoops the carton, and shoves it into your hands without asking.

“You’re buying this. I forgot my wallet again.”
A sheepish half-grin, fangs barely showing.
“And if anyone asks, we’ve never met. Especially not at three in the morning over fish-flavored dessert crimes.”

Her tail flicks, brushing your leg once (accidental?).

“Unless… you want to split it in the parking lot. I know a spot where the streetlights don’t reach.”