PARIS

“City’s a shithole,” you tell Sana, stepping out of a taxi. “Absolutely rotten.”

“It is not a shithole.”

“It is a shithole, Sana.”

“You just got off the plane. Can we reserve judgement on Paris until we’ve seen the fucking place?”

(This is the one where you get over a fear of flying, of falling - and Sana’s breeding kink goes a little further, gets a little more complicated - and neither of you give up much ground. It’s an ordeal, that one. You really oughta stop surprising her in hotels.)

-

“Little known fact,” Sana says to you near the beginning and looking for once a little less ethereally put-together, a bit more like she wants to go back to sleep. “St. Valentine was actually an incel who died in jail.”

She’s slumped onto your kitchen counter in a sweater several sizes too large - the one with your college crest, a hole in the armpit - and shorts, her long bare legs dangling above the tile.

“So, y'know.”

And you haven’t a fucking clue.

She shovels another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, “spending the holiday insufferably alone is something of an homage.”

“What?”

“An homage,” she crunches, happily.

Oh, you’re charmed by her, have been for weeks now, and you chuckle despite yourself, pour her coffee while you’re waiting for the toaster to finish. You’ve decided she’s going to eat fruit today whether she wants to or not - it’s barely breakfast if it’s just a bowl of sugary carbs; and in a pair of fuzzy socks, a stolen crewneck, with last night’s makeup still slightly smeared at the corners of her eyes and her hair mussed to shit, Sana makes you feel sorta responsible for her health. Your infatuation must be showing.

She lifts her chin, blinks lazily.

“I guess that makes us both artists by extension, or something,” you say.

“Incels?” Sana snorts.

“No.” Your toast pops. “Homage-payers.”

You watch her mouth quirk around her spoon. “I kinda like that,” she allows.

This morning, for the record, is only different than others in terms of superficial details - today Sana woke up with your hand cupped over her cunt, three fingers sinking slowly into her heat - annoyingly slow, the way she likes it least and best, depending on what she gets out of the teasing: her morning orgasm, in this case - and it was different enough that she moaned high and pretty, back arching as she squirmed on your palm, the sheets, whispering a delirious good morning against your jaw when her wits finally cohered into something more linear, understandable.

It’s your new normal, sure: sleeping together - and its odd, comedy-forged counterpart, waking-up together.

It’s eating breakfast, it’s Sana stealing your clothes, sitting on your counters like breaking convention is some sort of biological imperative.

It’s her legs wrapping around your waist while she kisses you soft and open-mouthed, leaving it to you to decide how much morning breath you can tolerate - and maybe that’s a routine worth indulging, for a bit. At any rate: it’s February 7th, which means there’s this sword of Damocles hanging over your head that a whole financial system has been built around monetizing, a day people probably buy chocolates and flowers and write sonnets over - except Sana is jetsetting next week and you’ll be spending February 14th in your apartment, possibly taking a shower, definitely sleeping in until noon, not being in love.

She’s a once-in-a-generation talent, a gorgeous face, a fantastic fuck - this is just what’s in the cards for you.

“You’re going to miss me,” says Sana, flat-out declaring it, threading her fingers beneath your chin, hooking her ankles loosely in the small of your back.

The cereal bowl clatters as you set it in the sink. “I might,” you say, noncommittal, enjoying the way it makes her press further into your body, clinging tighter. “How long did you say this trip was going to be, again?”

“Oh, forever, maybe,” Sana breezes, waving her other hand.

“You’re gonna change your mind about the whole concept of romance and think about texting me within five, ten minutes of dropping me off at the airport. But then you won’t actually do it, because you’ll figure that I’m busy, and then you’ll spend the rest of my flight kicking yourself for not sending me, like, an emoji, or something, and that it could’ve been enough to bridge the gap, and instead I’ll be off somewhere all dolled-up and glamorous, probably surrounded by hot models, and that’s when I’ll meet someone new. I mean, there’ll probably be no comparison to well, y'know-” She palms your crotch, fingers skating across the fabric. You recoil, almost scowl, and she snickers. “-but that’s what happens when you don’t text me. We’re not in contact for one week and I replace you with a French man named Pierre. Or Jean. Jean-Pierre, honestly. If I were you, I’d play it safe and shoot me a Valentine’s text.”

“Wow.” You push your thumbs under the hem of her shorts. “You got it in one, I think.”

She shrugs, faux-modest. “Naturally. Jean-Pierre knows what’s up.”

You slip your hands up further and her expression shifts as you meet skin under the heavy fabric: all suggestion, no pretense. Sana sighs contentedly, leaning back onto her wrists so that you have to chase her, tilt your head to follow the movement. This is natural. She takes your lip between her teeth and sucks, gently. The angle puts a crick in your neck. You let her get away with it anyway, press further in between her thighs, spread them wide - and then she bites harder, the flesh of your bottom lip giving under her canines.

There’s a spark there, it makes you want to pull her hair, kiss her harder, dig your fingers into her hips and leave bruises that’ll last through the next couple weeks of international press junkets and glitter-eyed meetings with like-minded, like-pretty strangers. You’re starting to suspect she’s psychic - because she slides a hand up your shirt, letting her fingers skate over your stomach, the dip of your hips, the places that make you tick.

You clock the twitch in your pants, growing, filling. You’ve slept with this girl an awful lot. It’s a problem.

“Possessive,” is Sana’s assessment, with all of the derision of a tease.

“Cool it,” you warn her, sliding your grip up from her legs to her hips, pinning her solidly to the countertop. “I’ve got a full enough schedule this morning without you making a mess of things.”

“Mmm, you don’t.” She’s petulant, kissing you again and letting the touch linger on your bottom lip. It’s a strong argument.

“I do,” you try.

“You really don’t,” she says, sing-song, breathless with expectation, anticipating rough treatment.

Her smile is syrup-sweet, oozing indulgence: the sight of her sprawled beneath you is a pure profligate pleasure. Like she’s an apple you stole fresh from the orchard, red and shiny and dripping juice down your forearm, dribbling sticky on the grass, rotted with temptation. You wonder if she’s always been this way - begging to be held down, fucked hard, edged beyond the realm of possibility - and recently her appetite for filth seems endless, like she’s come into a taste for it. Sana Minatozaki doesn’t often say no.

For all intents and purposes, your answer should be a given.

“Well,” you drawl, thumbing the soft cotton of her shorts, that spot just above the waistband, where her inner thigh meets the crease of her pelvis and you can make her voice go to velvet. “Did you say he died in prison?” You pull away from her a bit, switching tactics, letting the subject slide from bedroom talk to regular breakfast chatter. “Of what, heartbreak?”

“You’d think,” she says, almost curt, irritated at the prospect of edification and sorely lacking a good fuck. It’s a pleasant mood to find her in - very manageable, easier if you slip your tongue between her legs, though still relatively straightforward. “It turns out the dude got beaten to death with clubs, then beheaded; hence the martyrdom bit, which I think is fair. Pretty metal death to warrant sainthood.”

“Seems a little redundant.”

“So does giving a holiday to people who are already, like, super in love or whatever, but.” She gathers her hair off her neck - lets it fall, satisfied. “I guess romanticism and pragmatism are just mutually conclusive.”

“Exclusive,” you correct, lightly.

“What’d I say?”

You exchange looks: it’s definitely something you’ve already joked about before. It’s easy, like the rest of your dynamic. Sana smiles, slow-burn, and all you can do is try and one-up her: you shrug, sigh, like there’s a lot to consider.

Her fingers work open one of the buttons on the front of your shirt, hover on the one beneath it - her patience is dwindling.

“Fine,” you relent, rolling your eyes, feigning reluctance. “But we need to be quick about it. Fifteen minutes, twenty max. Then I absolutely need to leave and go sit silently in a room doing jackshit for eight hours.”

Sana kicks you lightly in the shins. “Let me get on top, and we’ll have time to cuddle, too.”