She hadn't expected the evening to unfold in such a manner.
It wasn't bad—just uncomfortably open. Too open for her liking.
Ji hadn't offered to walk her home right away; instead, they naturally fell into step beside her as they left the quieter streets, their company both seamless and uninvited. It disturbed her how easily Ji seemed to fit by her side, as though it was both organic and inevitable. Part of her wanted to distance herself from them, to insist on solitude, yet she found herself unable to push them away.
They walked several blocks in silence, Michiko's apartment still a short distance away. The night air grew cooler, a slight chill grazing along her neck. Ji kept their hands casually tucked into their pockets, their posture relaxed, eyes alert but not intrusive, as if privately observing every unspoken nerve in her frame.
Conflicted feelings churned within her. Part of her wanted to relish the comfort of having someone with her, while another part sought for the solitude she had always cherished.
"Usually, I'm the one walking my dates home," Michiko announced, almost to herself.
Ji glanced toward her. "Is me walking you home such an unpleasant change?"
"I'm just trying to understand why you're still here."
Ji's response was simple, straightforward, unemotionally honest. "Because you haven't told me to leave."
Michiko let out a small, dismissive sound but didn't argue, the transparency settling into her.
They turned onto a darker street lined with shuttered shops, their way momentarily lit by the cold, pale glow of a nearby vending machine. Ahead, a trio of men loitered, their voices loud and raucous, laughter jagged and slurred from alcohol, butchering through the night.
Michiko's pace faltered, heart lurching violently as memories crashed over her—sharp, intrusive, laughter like daggers, hands squeezing with brutal force. Her entire body locked, breath strangled in her throat, fear clawing at her insides.
Ji noticed immediately.
Without a word, without a second thought, Ji moved forward, positioning themselves firmly and unmistakably between her and the men who stirred her fear. Their stance was calm, assured—not showy or aggressively protective, solely present.
A soundless shield forged from profound compassion.
Michiko's heart pounded wildly, vulnerability soaring through her veins as her fingers reached out unconsciously, clutching Ji's sleeve with a desperate grip. She held on tightly—just long enough to anchor herself against the storm inside.
Ji didn't look back, didn't speak. They simply resumed walking slowly, allowing the loud laughter and harsh voices to fade into the distance behind them.
Once silence returned, Michiko carefully withdrew her fingers, letting her hand fall back to her side. Ji didn't acknowledge the moment verbally; their consideration felt more helpful than any words could have.
Upon arriving at the corner near her apartment building, Michiko paused, her voice faint yet tinged with a trace of residual bitterness.
"I hate them."
Ji glanced at her. "Them?"
"Men," she clarified, her voice low but sharp. "Loud. Careless. Cruel."
Ji remained calmly attentive, expression neutral yet empathetic.
She continued, voice softer, almost insecure. "For a long time, I thought maybe I was just paranoid and overreacting. But I wasn't. They're always the same. They only care about control, dominance, and taking what they want."
Ji observed her silently, their gaze growing even more tender.
Michiko's fingers tightened instinctively around her purse strap, her voice lowering to a near whisper, as if speaking to herself and the quiet night:
"That's why I only like women."
The words were faint, nearly inaudible, but Ji heard them clearly.
They stayed mute, absorbing the admission delicately and holding it close.
When they reached her gate, Michiko paused once more, the silence hovering comfortably yet significantly between them, caught perfectly between farewell and something deeper.
Ji stopped before her, their hands still casually pocketed. "Safe and sound," they said quietly, their voice gentle, reassuring.
Michiko raised her chin slightly, stubbornly protective. "Do I look like someone who needs saving?"
Ji's smiled, their eyes warm and sincere. "No, but you looked like you needed someone."
The truth in Ji's words unsettled her, the acknowledgement too close, too accurate.
Ji leaned in slightly—not intrusive, not crossing boundaries, but just enough to leave a cherished question hanging between them.
Michiko's chest tightened, her breath momentarily caught. The proximity was tempting, daring in how easily she could close the remaining distance.
She didn't move forward, but she also didn't pull back.
Ji's gaze lingered on her lips before returning to her eyes, a thoughtful smile curving their mouth. "Goodnight, Michi."
She instinctively parted her lips to correct them, to remind them of her full name, but she stopped herself, allowing the youthful affection of the nickname to sit between them, like a precious secret shared under the stars.
Ji raised a hand briefly, a fleeting moment of consideration as if pondering a gentle touch to her cheek or the soft strands of her hair, before refraining, their respect for her boundaries as evident as the moonlight bathing the scene. They stepped back, turning slowly, their departure as graceful as a swan gliding across a still lake.
Michiko stood at the gate, her eyes following long after Ji had disappeared into the embrace of the darkness, her heartbeat unsettled like the ripples of a pond disturbed by a passing breeze.
Ji's presence was reassuring yet complex, comforting yet filled with dull possessiveness. She felt exposed in ways she hadn't anticipated. Yet beneath her perplexity, a deeper truth began to take root:
She wasn't ready for Ji—but perhaps, despite her fears, she no longer wanted to pull away.