You know what? You have all this free time on your hands. Maybe you should update for once. That is, as soon as Momiji gets off of you. You have grossly underestimated her tenacity and ability to draw your attention to less pressing matters—not that you mind, but at this rate, evening is going to come way before you can even think about touching your update.

You’d much rather touch Momiji, but today should be a day of restraint. Sad, unfulfilling, you want to do things to her so much restraint.

“Gallagher,” Momiji says. A second passes, but she doesn’t say anything else, pondering within your arms. Worry creases her brow and that alone makes you nervous. Of course, you’re overreacting, but ever since Momiji became fundamental to your immediate happiness, you can’t help but think that every moment like this is—and will be—fleeting.

She takes a slow, steady breath. Then, after a very deliberate pause, she speaks. “I can’t ignore dinner any longer. I’m going to have to do something about it before the pasta soaks too much.”

“Oh,” you say, as Momiji nestles closer to you. “I see.”

“Mmm.”

“And this isn’t ignoring dinner, how exactly?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going.” Reluctantly, she pushes herself away from you. “Damn basic necessities—always getting in the way of the heart.”

Momiji looks to you for a reaction, or maybe an excuse for her to stay a minute longer, but you shoo her away. You have a rare chance to work on your update so, fate willing, you’ll seize it.
____________________

You’re almost certain that you’re going to get struck by a meteor because this is the fastest that you have ever written anything. You have words—hundreds of them—and it hasn’t even been an hour yet. Granted, all you’ve written so far is Momiji and her dialogue, but frankly, Momiji sounds like…

Well. She sounds like Momiji.

Then Momiji, the real one, comes barging straight into the room, holding a tray with two full plates of pasta triumphantly in the air.

“Behold. Pasta.”

You just stare at her.

“I know, I know. You’re speechless. It’s too great, too perfect to be just pasta. But believe me, I was there when it happened. It’s lightly seasoned with a little bit of garlic and basil—not enough for the flavor to overpower the pasta, but enough to give it some kick.”

“Miji,” you sigh. “You’re a doof.”

“I’m a doof with two bowls of pasta,” she says. “Now have some.”

“In a bit. I need to iron out this update a little more.”

“Sure.” Momiji leans over your shoulder, scanning the contents of the update. She gasps. “Whoa. That girl. Isn’t she a little too cool?”

“Who, Aya?”

“I meant me,” Momiji says, disgusted.

“Good one.”

“You know it’s true.”

You meet her eyes. “She pales in comparison to you, though.”

“But she’s me.” Momiji grins, returning to reading the rest of your update. “Oh. I think I said this before! In real life, I mean.”

“You did. She’s kinda based off the real thing.”

“It’s nice to know you pay real close attention to me,” she says, laughing.

“I’ll do a lot more than just pay attention to you.”

“By that, you mean, uh—”

“Yeah.” You lightly push Momiji by the shoulders, coaxing her to the bed. She takes a nervous glance to the side but otherwise lets you do as you please. “I mean this.”

“Um. What about the update?”

Much like the pasta, it can wait.

Life goes on uneventfully. The most you have to say about the next few weeks is that business was as good as usual—and you mean it. You don’t know what made the Morning Spirits Pub suddenly thrive, and you have half a mind to find out why, but you’re not going to beat a dead gift horse with its own mouth. It’s popular enough to start hiring for a real bartender and not you, who’s only pretending at best. Unfortunately, that means real fiscal decisions. You’d feel more comfortable if the owner weren’t still missing, but there isn’t much of an alternative. Worst of all, since you’re the only one with any semblance of authority, you’re also the one that has to figure out how to hire people.

It’s honestly not that bad, but you love to complain. Who you hire isn’t critically important because there are only two requirements. The first is to be a better bartender than you are. Admittedly, you’re not too shabby for a guy without formal training, but that’s beside the point. The second is to be better with people than you are. Not the highest bar to climb, that’s for sure.

You’re in the middle of stealing sample interview questions off the internet when a knock on the door interrupts you. You look up and you don’t fucking believe it.

It’s a guy. Brown hair, brown eyes, big scraggly beard that’s screaming to be shaved. Either you’re going delusional or it’s Mark, that son of a bitch. Allegedly, he was your co-manager but he did fuck-all after you got promoted.

“Mark. What the—what the fuck? Where the hell have you been?” You’d be more reserved with your expletives, but the guy went full rogue on you while you were already understaffed. Now he's back again like he only ever left for a quick smoke break.

“Um.” He inches back, though you can’t blame him. Your eyes are laser-beaming him with exasperation. “I’ve been working.”

“Working? You haven’t shown up in over a year!”

“I, uh, what?” He mulls over your words for a bit. Then he gets it—which is good because you sure don’t. “Oh. My uncle left you out to dry, didn’t he?”

“Your uncle?”

“The owner of Morning Spirits.” Mark lifts a finger over to a chair adjacent to your desk. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Mark says, planting himself down. He tilts his chair back and sways as he bobs his leg restlessly up and down. “Do you want the short explanation or the long one?”

“The short one, please. I’d rather not hear the excuses you have. Just give me the necessary details and not the bullshit.”

“I didn’t like the job, and I wasn’t cut out for it anyway, so I left. I told my uncle that I was leaving the Morning Spirits a long time ago, and I figured that he’d relay that over to you.”

“Couldn’t you have told, I dunno, your co-manager? The guy you pushed all your work onto?”

“I didn’t figure that you’d stay. And… that was my bad. But I wanted out. When I started working for the Morning Spirits, I told my uncle that I’d only work under him until I found a real job—no offense, by the way—and I’d leave as soon as I did. So I did, and I left. I had a wife and a kid to take care of, and I didn’t see a future here. I thought that the place wouldn’t last, so I jumped ship. And I thought that you’d do the same.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Sorry,” he says, face swarming with guilt. “Really, I am. I didn’t mean to disappear on you like that and leave you to do all the work. But I left the city for another job because I didn’t think that the pub would last another month.”

“I thought the same, to be honest.”

“My uncle practically let this whole place fall apart. I’m honestly surprised it’s still running.”

“You can thank me for that. But it really feels like it’ll close down any day now. I’m no business expert, but doesn’t the owner have to do, I dunno, heavy paperwork to keep the thing going?”

“Yes he does. And I’ll be frank: I haven’t talked to my uncle in a while so I don’t know what’s happening on his end.”

“That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

“Look,” he says, adopting a softer tone, “You don’t deserve working in this hellhole. If you want, I could help you out. I could get you an interview with my company, maybe.”

“Thanks, but I’m good. Despite all the shit that happens, I like being here. And I’m not saying that just because we’re finally on the cusp of breaking even. It helps that everybody else on staff is… reasonable, more or less. So, as their boss, I can’t just ditch them like the pub owner did.”

“What happened to the Gallagher that didn’t give a damn about employee loyalty? The one that said, ‘I’m gonna leave this sorry place as soon as I can’?”

“That Gallagher’s dead, Mark.”

“Well I’ll be. Never thought I’d say this to you, but you’re a good guy.”

“I’d love to echo the sentiment, but I’m still a little peeved at you for going completely AWOL on me.”

“That’s fair.” He unpockets a pack of cigarettes and thumbs it open, letting a single one peek out from its cover. “Want one?”

“There’s no smoking here,” you say.

“I figured as much,” he says, tucking the carton back into his pants.

“Now, pleasantries aside—and I don’t want to be rude but—why are you here?”

“I don’t really know.” Mark sinks a little further into his chair and adopts a more weary look. “I just saw the Morning Spirits still open and I was in the area, so I thought, ‘Hey, what the heck, I’ll go inside and see who’s around.’ Turns out, I don’t know any of the staff anymore—except you, that is. Funny how that happens. I didn’t really expect to see you still here. And here we are. It’s loony how fast a place can change.”

There was some point, which you must have obviously missed, where the Morning Spirits Pub stopped being a flaming pile of shit and became a regular pile of shit. The customers are less seedy nowadays. They’re not awful—just a bunch of alcoholics. When compared to the wife-beaters, the public dick-lickers, and the runaway whoevers, you’d take the miserable dudes who can’t keep their mouths shut over the dudes who try and fight your cook.

You laugh a little. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“How have the customers been treating you?” says Mark.

“Enough to tip me,” you reply back. Surprisingly, it’s been a while since you’ve been treated like complete shit. You still get a “fuck off, cunt” every once in a while, but people actually come to the bar to get a drink instead of making a beeline to the waitresses.

“They tip you?” He laughs. “This is seriously a different place now, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about it. And get this—our cook? Hasn’t left yet.”

“What!”

“But to be fair, our cook can kick anybody’s ass. First day of the job, right? There’s this real belligerent customer, and he demands to see the cook. She comes out, and he complains. The usual, but he gets ready to do something funny, and she grabs him by the shoulder and just nelson slams the guy.”

“I told you that we’d keep a cook around if they knew self-defense.”

“No, I said that. You just agreed.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t often that we agreed on something. So, it must have been a sound decision.”

“Don’t spin it as if you actually did something.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, chuckling. “You’re right. I didn’t. I’ll admit that. But it’s fun messing with you. Just watching your reactions makes me remember the good old days.”

“You mean back when this place was a complete shithole?”

“Yeah, but it was a complete shithole with you, me, and Jasmine. Us three—I miss the times we were all together.”

“Maybe you do. Nowadays, I rather like my staff. Sure, all of them are a complete mess, but you know what? I appreciate that. At least they’re honest about themselves.”

“So you didn’t like me and Jasmine?” Mark wipes a fake tear off his eye. “Really stings, it does.”

“You left without a word. And our ex-boss? Yeah, she’s self-explanatory.”

“Fair point.” Mark leans up from his chair, looking around. “Come to think of it, where did Jasmine go? Did she split like me?”

“Who knows? I don’t really care.”

“Didn’t you two have a thing together?”

“No,” you say. “We didn’t.”

“Hey, Gallagher.” Mark adopts a softer look on his face. It’s a bit unsettling. “You’re more well spoken nowadays. I thought that you’d be the same since the last time we talked, but you’ve grown—good on you.”

“You were always the one who needed to grow up a bit,” you say, shaking your head.

You part with Mark amicably, which must have been a first in your lifetime. You’re still thrown off about it—he was about the last person you thought you’d see today. You spent most of your time hating the guy when the two of you were co-managers, but now you’re assailed with a strange feeling of indifference. And here you thought you’d never settle that grudge with him. Funny how that works. But, if you’re being honest, you can’t say that you suddenly love the guy now.

Your conversation with him makes you think about Momiji. No surprise there, since she’s apparently all you think about. But when was the last time she had to deal with a shitty customer? Aside from her first week here, you don’t actually remember. Is this what it’s like to be successful? Relatively speaking, business is booming. But if you want to keep it relative, then the Morning Spirits isn’t quite in the clear yet. If you had to compare to anywhere else, it isn’t exactly the most thriving place out there.

You see Mark out of your office with a wave, and hopefully, that’s the last you see of him. You associate him with too many bad memories, so it’s probably better off that way. Of course, as Mark leaves, nobody bats an eye except Lily, who does a quick double take before rushing up to you, rattling on with unfinished “who’s” and “what’s.”

“Was that Mark?” Lily finally completes her thought. “He was here?”

Cassie, noticing the commotion, decides to join you and Lily. “What’s happening?”

“The co-manager—”

“Former co-manager,” you interject.

“Former co-manager—he just passed by!”

“And?” Cassie asks.

“And nothing,” you say. “We just talked.”

“What? That’s it?” Cassie pouts. A customer motions to her, an obvious frown on his face. “Uh. I should get back.”

Lily looks back to make sure that she isn’t needed before turning to you. “So what did Mark want?”

“I don’t really know. We just talked about the past, and how the bar’s been holding up nowadays.”

“Really?” She’s got this look like she doesn’t believe you. But honestly, you’re not sure if you’d believe yourself either. “I thought you always hated him? I remember one day—it was a really slow day, I think—you spent an entire day telling me how you were going to kill him.”

‘Yeah, but that was then, and this is now. It was a complete shitshow back when we were working together, and I get that he wanted to bail, but really? Guy just goes running and I have to do twice the work.” You heave a deep sigh—one that you’ve been saving since you became co-manager. “I just don’t care enough to hate him anymore. Well, actually, I still do—just a lot less now. And I’d love to say that he’s a good guy, but I just can’t. Anyway, today isn’t a slow day, and I know you want any excuse to get out of work, so I’m going to shut up and not give you that satisfaction.”

“Got it.” Lily winks. “Let me know whenever you need to vent again.”

“No thanks. And I’m not venting,” you say, though it feels more like a self-affirmation because you don’t know if Lily heard that last bit.

As you mindlessly take care of the bar and its customers, you spend the rest of the day mentally figuring out where you should look for extra staff. You know a couple of people who are great bartenders, but that’s also the problem: They’re great bartenders. In a dumpster town like this, bartenders are never without a job—and great ones more so. Once closing time hits, you decide that you should stop thinking about it so much and just slap a “Help Wanted” sign near the entrance. Apparently, taking an entire day to figure out something you should’ve done in seconds is why you’re manager.

After your obligatory goodbyes, you’re in the middle of locking up outside when you see Momiji come up and place a casual hand on the door, leaning on it slightly.

“Come here often?” she says, winking.

You unlock the door she’s leaning on, and she leans straight into the entrance, almost toppling over. Got her good, didn’t you? You watch her smugly as she walks out the door, a gigantic pout on her face.

“So, come here often?” you repeat back as you lock the door.

“Very funny. You only get a free pass because I find you the most tolerable out of anyone.”

“Same to you. You’re very tolerable.”

“You can’t get me with cheap flattery.” But despite what she says, Momiji laughs and takes your hand in hers. “Come on. Let’s go home already.”

It’s still a strange feeling to come back home exhausted. Ever since business’s been gaining traction, you’ve been coming back with sleep on your mind. It’s definitely the work catching up to you—all these years of doing nothing behind the counter has made you awful at doing your job. Go figure, right? Of course, now that you have standards to uphold, you’re doing your god damn best to give your all—that being about eighty-five percent—but it’s been taking a toll on your energy. You remedy that by doing the worst possible thing: Napping right after work to throw off your circadian rhythm.

Momiji’s been doing the same, but you think she only does it so that she can cuddle next to you while you’re sleeping. You appreciate how cute that is, but at the same time, you’d prefer her to keep her hands to herself because she emits heat like a fucking radiator. It’s nice to wake up to Momiji next to you, but every time you do so, you feel like you’ve woken up in the middle of the desert. A soft, wolfy desert, but a desert nonetheless.

Today, though, you feel good—thoughts of fixing your erratic sleeping schedule come to mind, but you seriously doubt that you can get back to sleeping at one A.M. on the regular. Guess you’ll have to just live with it.

Momiji’s sprawled out on the couch, resting her head on your lap as you stroke her hair idly.

“Hey, Miji. Want to do anything tonight?”

“Yeah.” She plays with one of the buttons on your shirt. “Oh, I got something. How about, today, we do nothing and laze around on the couch?”

You stifle a yawn. “Sounds good. Keep me awake, though. I want to stop feeling like dogshit in the morning.”

“I don’t think that fixing your sleep schedule will do you any better. You’re definitely not a morning person. Or an afternoon person. Or an evening person too, for that matter.”

“I’m a one-to-four-AM person, how about that?” You rest your head on one of the couch cushions, and, little by little, you let your eyes close. But a sharp jab to your side jolts you alert. You look down to see Momiji snickering.

“Took you about all of thirty seconds to start falling asleep, hun.”

“...Who are you calling a ‘Hun’?”

“What? You don’t like it?”

“I can’t say that I do. The only people who say ‘hun’ are pro-Attila or lanky old waitresses at a ten dollar diner.”

“Okay.” Momiji purses her lips as she looks to the ceiling in thought. “Then how about ‘babe’?”

“Saying ‘babe’ makes me feel like I’m being hit on.”

“Darling?” As soon as the word leaves her mouth, Momiji’s vehemently shaking her head, almost falling in between the couch cushions as she does so. “Nope, never mind. Sounded as cheesy as I thought it did in my head.”

“I’m already embarrassed for you.” You rub your neck. “Maybe we should just stick with ‘Gally’ and ‘Miji.’”

“Yeah. Let’s do that.” She laughs out her awkwardness. “Studman.”

“Two can play at that game, baby-doll.”

“Cupcake.”

“Foxy mama.”

“Pumpkin-poo.”

“Milady.”

“D-Darling.”

The two of you stare at each other until it becomes uncomfortable. You’d say that it’s a problematic moment, but her eyes wander away and peer into the bedroom. Then she’s red-faced, probably thinking the same thing you’re thinking about.

You prompt her. “Want to, um…”

“Yeah,” she says quickly, lifting her head out of your lap. “That. Let’s, uh, yeah—that.”

You smile and take her hand to lead her out of the living room.
____________________

You regret everything. Now you’re twice as tired, and all motivation to do anything is now long gone. Still, given the chance, you’d do it again, so maybe you’re not as remorseful as you thought you were going to be.

“Miji, want to do something tomorrow?”

“Hmm?” She’s busy putting a shirt back on. “I actually can’t. Lily invited me to go drink with a couple of her friends, so I decided to go along. Is the day after good?”

“Yeah,” you reply back automatically. Then you process what she said. “Wait, you said Lily invited you?”

“Yep. She said that she’ll be bringing Rylee along, too.”

“I see.” Momiji’s acting all nonchalant about it, but you can’t do the same. Maybe you’re just being an overly-sensitive twat, but you’re still not fully at ease around Lily. Sure, it happened a while ago, but it’s not something you can readily forget. But to think that she invited Momiji to drink with her friends—you don’t get women. “Have fun.”

“Don’t worry.” Momiji plops back down next to you when she’s done covering herself up. “We can do something the day after!”

“Sure.”

But that begs the question: What are you going to do tomorrow? Maybe you could get Momiji something—you are never good at picking a present for somebody that isn't yourself, but it can’t hurt to find something nice for her. Now all you need to do is find an excuse to give Momiji a gift.

[ ] Convenience. Something like a phone would make life easier for the both of you.
[ ] Sales. You know that it's around the time that university students start spring semester, and laptops for college-bound students are relatively cheap. Therefore, you “had to buy it.”
[ ] You don't need an excuse to give her something that would look nice on her, right?

You haven’t really thought about it, but it’s surprisingly difficult to get in contact with Momiji. Of course, you’ve never noticed because you’re in her constant company—not that you mind—but you worry that there will be a time where physical distance is a given. And if she disappears, then at the very least, she’d always have a way to contact you, granted she isn’t whisked away to another world. It’s a ridiculous notion to an even more ridiculous premise, but Momiji isn’t from a place where things are impossible simply because they are “ridiculous.”

In any case, your incessant brooding aside, you decide on a phone. You think she’d appreciate it, since just having one would make life easier for the both of you. It’s convenient, so you have every reason to get her one.

“Hey, Miji,” you say once you get into bed.

She glances over. “I thought you were going to try and fix that sleeping schedule of yours?”

“It’s late enough. Plus, after all that, I’m ready to pass out for the night.”

“In that case,” Momiji says, turning off the lights and sneaking into the covers, “good night?”

“Before that. I was thinking about getting you a phone tomorrow. Y’know, just in case. Do you have any preferences, or should I just pick one out for you?“

“Ooh.” She rolls closer to you. “What’s the occasion?”

“There’s no particular occasion,” you reply back gruffly.

“Oh yeah? You can pick one out for me then.” Momiji says. Even in the darkness, you can still make out a grin creeping up her face. “I think your money is better spent elsewhere, but who am I to complain?”

“I swear if you tell me that you think that your phone looks ugly after I get it, I’m going to throw a fit.”

“I won’t. Even if I think that it is. So,” she says, stroking your cheek. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” you say, stuffing your embarrassment. “Good night.”

“Night.”

---

Much of your day is blurry, as if you were a shitty cameraman to your own life. Everything you did today has been on full autopilot, and it’s scary to think that you can operate on that level of habit. As always, you’ve gotten complaints from the customers, but that too is routine. Maybe you’re not the best bartender around, but you’re pretty sure you can do this shit in your sleep. You won’t ever be in the realm of “excellent service,” but “consistently mediocre service” sounds good in its own way, too.

This extends all the way until closing time when you’re finally relinquished of your bar duty. You see your employees off, Momiji included, and lock up. The mobile store is on the way back, but you forgot to check when it closes. You walk hurriedly until you pull up the store’s hours on your phone. Thankfully, it’s still open for another two hours, so you slow your pace. You have some time to kill before Momiji gets home, so you figure that you should take your time.

The storefront isn’t all that glamorous, but really, what is in this godforsaken city? At least they had automatic doors, and that’s good enough for you. You immediately head over to the section that displays all the smartphones. There’s a lot of words that you don’t give a rat’s ass about—biometric scanner, megapixels, polarizing glass filters and OLED screen displays. To you, they were all nothing but buzzwords that tacked on additional dollars to the final cost.

Still, you didn’t want to give Momiji something that’s complete shit so, disregarding all the unnecessarily convoluted features, you look at the pure hardware specifications. If you think about it, they’re all homogeneous anyway—you can call, text, browse the internet, and take pictures on any of them, so all you’re doing is paying for the slightly varying features and better hardware.

“Finding everything alright?” asks a miserable-faced man with a scraggly brown beard. “James,” reads his nametag.

“Yeah, actually. I’d like to get one of these,” you say, pointing to some nondescript phone.

“Oh, really?” His eyes, previously two dull orbs staring at nothing in particular, lights up. “That one’s great—totally better than any of the flagship models. If you don’t care about the twelve megapixel standard nowadays, it’s an affordable alternative to all the other overpriced brands!”

There’s a whole lot of yadda yadda, but the guy seems genuinely enthused about the subject in particular, so you let him pitch the phone to you. Every once in a while, you nod whenever he’s looking for your input. Eventually, a man from the back office squawks, “Jaaaames! Get on with it!” and the poor guy shuts up and leads you to the sales desk.

“It’ll come out to two-hundred five dollars and fifty-four cents,” he says mechanically, eyes briefly flicking back to the back office. “We do have a special promotion where you can get the phone for free, but it’ll only be a family plan deal.”

“Family plan?” you ask.

“Yeah. If you have family that isn’t currently registered under your current mobile plan, like your parents, your brother or sister, child, wife, legal partner, etcetera. Do you have eligible family?”

[ ] You might as well try and weasel your way into a free phone.
[ ] Ask him if he’s going to verify if you do.
[ ] You’ll save yourself the hassle and just buy the phone.

It’s a free phone, minus the fine print hidden away behind a contract, so you might as well try and weasel your way into one.

“I do,” you say. “A legal partner, and we’re sharing households.”

It’s a lie through your damn teeth, but that was the closest label you can find for Momiji, minus her being your wife. But she doesn’t exactly have any paperwork tied to her name and face, so that’s the best you can fib out.

“Got any proof?”

“I don’t exactly keep our files on us.” You sigh, pulling out your phone. “I can at least show a photo of her. Is that good enough?”

Of course, that means exactly nothing, but you’re not exactly in a place where they’d waste their time—or yours—to verify squat.

“Not really,” the man says, shaking his head. But he draws a weary eye over to the back office and frowns. “But I don’t get paid enough to double check. Let me see, and we’ll both be on our way.”

You scroll over to your phone’s gallery. The only good one you can find—if you can even call it good—is a drunken photo taken by Miji herself. It’s very unflattering: She has a dopey grin on her face while you’re busy being a corpse on the floor. You crop her wolf ears out and present the evidence to your unenthused audience.

“It’s the only one I have of her.” For some reason, you have to blab out an excuse for her. “She’s, um, very camera-shy when sober, you see, and doesn’t like other people taking her picture. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I totally get it,” says the guy, who doesn’t understand at all. But at least he’s nice enough to humor you and move on.

It’s cheap enough to get Momiji under your existing contract. You don’t have to deal with additional paperwork, and all that you have to account for every month is the extra fee for phone service.

“Is that everything you need?” James asks, ready to get this over with.

That makes the two of you.

“Yeah. Thanks. Have a nice day,” you say, exchanging your final courtesy to the man.

“You too,” he says, slouching over at the counter, probably ready to get his shift over with.

---

You make it back to your apartment and drop the contents of your shame on the living room table. The phone by itself was innocuous enough, but tying it to your phone contract meant that you’re treating Momiji’s presence as a given in your life. Obviously, you don’t mind that one bit, but you definitely feel like you’re getting dumber by the minute, by Momiji’s indirect fault. Why else would you impulsively buy a phone for her?

Other than the fact that Momiji is an elusive creature and might disappear at any moment, you reason to yourself. But if that ever happens, you’re not sure if a phone would even save her. Nevertheless, what’s bought is bought, and you’ll face the repercussions. And, the funny thing is, if Momiji were here with you, you wouldn’t even waste your time brooding about all this. Maybe this calls for a distraction—you move over to the computer and sit yourself down at your chair.

For now, you’ll just wait for Momiji to come back.

Momiji returns home with vengeance. You’re about halfway into an argument with your keyboard when the door clatters, and violently so. While you’d love to do nothing but listen to Momiji’s miserable attempts to wrest custody of the doorknob, you’d rather have a door than not. Aside from a satisfying click, the air goes silent when you unlock the door from your end.

“Uh. H-Heeeey,” she says, the door muffling her voice. Still, it couldn’t hide her embarrassment as it bleeds through the door gingerly opening. She inches her way into the apartment in shame.

“Hey,” you say back. The embarrassment is airborne, and the two of you stand there gawking at each other before you make the brave move to shut the door. “Welcome back. So, what’s up?”

“Nothing, really.” With that, she sidles closer to you. But that’s when the smell of alcohol hits you—doubly so, since you’re perfectly sober. It’s not just on her breath either. Her entire being smells like dry spirits… or something like that. Whatever it is, it stinks. So you yank your head back as she inches her face to yours.

“Whaaat,” she whines. “You don’t want to?”

“I do, somewhat,” you admit. “But not right now.”

“Why!”

“I’m just going to be honest. You smell.”

“Uh?” Momiji’s in too much shock to look crestfallen. “What—What if I get some mouthwash?”

“And, um. Maybe go change, too.”

“And theeen?”

“...And then we can talk about it on the couch,” you say, relenting.

“Fineeee,” she drawls. However, she complies and heads over to the restroom, voicing complaints under her breath as she bumps a stray toe into the wall.

In truth, or at least half of it, you need time to go and grab Momiji’s present while she’s distracted. Though, it isn’t much of a surprise—you even told her about it, after all. But it’d ruin the gift if you were to go looking for it, and quite stupidly at that, scrambling to find out that you accidentally left it in the kitchen of all places. And all the while, Momiji would be laughing her ass off at your struggle. Yeah, no.

The first thing you do when she returns to the room is thrust out the sleek, black box that the phone is in. “Here,” you declare, not really sure what else to say. “Phone.”

“Actually,” she giggles, “That’s a box.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” The wolf carefully takes the little box from your hands and settles down on the couch. “I like the case design.”

“It’s a box.”

“Yes, but it’s a nice box!”

“I’ll humor you on that and say it is,” you say, joining her on the sofa.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she’s already unboxed the entire thing, fiddling around with the phone’s touchscreen.

You watch her mess around for a bit before she places a tipsy hand on your shoulder. God help you.

“Hey cutie,” she says, affirming your premonitions. “You’ve got a face that’s asking for my number.”

“Really?” you say, pointing to your sorry mug. “You think this looks like it wants your number?”

“Yeah. Me. My number. You. And, uh.” Momiji looks down at her phone. “Wait.” She freezes. “I don’t know my number.”

“Here. Hand me that, and I’ll put mine in.”

“Right!” She eagerly hands you the device and assumes an expectant stance, sitting seiza with her shoulders and face leaned forward. You stifle your own embarrassment and punch your number in, but Momiji’s making it incredibly difficult as a giddy smile creeps up her face.

When you return her phone, the first thing she does is dial you… which admittedly tugs on the heartstrings, but it’s hard to take her seriously when she’s boozed up and laughing to herself.

Nevertheless, you reluctantly pick up the phone.

“Hi. It’s Momiji from the living room. How’s it going?”

“Nothing much,” you say, despite the fact that she’s about two feet away.

“Um, seen any good movies lately?”

“Miji. Do we really have to do this?”

“Whatcha wearing?”

“...I’m hanging up.”

So you do, but Momiji’s already halfway through her next form of harassment.

Your phone buzzes again, and inscribed in text is Momiji’s loving message to you: “hi come here often??”

You’re about to give her a piece of your mind, but she flashes a quick smile—and not the goofy kind: It starts softly, with the lips of her mouth curling gently upwards. Her eyes stand transfixed to your gift, reading through imaginary messages as she fiddles with its interface. In her preoccupations, you catch a glimpse of her candid smile, but it quickly eludes you as she places a hand over her blushing face.

“Whaaat?” she says in mild complaint.

“Nothing. Don’t mind me and keep doing what you were doing.”

“It’s hard when you’re staring at me like that—makes me self-conscious, see?” Though she lowers her hand from her face, Momiji keeps her phone clutched tightly to her chest. “Or maybe it’s just me, and I’m being an idiot.”

“No different from the usual.”

You expect her to reply in return with something snappy, but instead she briefly goes quiet.

“Mmm.” Momiji leans her head on your shoulder. “Gallagher.”

“What’s up?”

“I find you really attractive.”

“Sorry? A bit late for that, yeah?”

“And I love you.”

“Uh.” You blink. “I love you too. What brought this on?”

“Alcohol, maybe. Or maybe lack of? I feel like I’m sobering up. Or maybe I’m feeling a little anxious. I don’t really know.”

“Anxious? Of what?”

“Of routine. Or maybe tomorrow. I was thinking about that one time we talked about Gensokyo. And the more I get used to things here, the more dread I feel about getting snapped back into reality… or out of it, depending on the perspective, I guess. Maybe I never return to Gensokyo, and I live the rest of my life in the Outside.”

You place a comforting hand to her head, stroking her hair gently. “Maybe.”

She drops herself completely onto the couch, placing her head directly on your lap. “Or maybe I’ll return the next day or the next month or the next decade. Who knows? The worst part is that I have no idea when—or if at all—it’ll happen. But what I’m really scared of is that this might all end, and I’ll just disappear without saying so much as a single goodbye. Do you, um, ever think about that, too?”

“I do. Or, well, I did.”

“And?” she says, though it’s more of a whine.

[ ] It’s unfortunately something you prepare for every day.
[ ] You’re not going to fear the day until it happens. If it ever does happen, that is.

You’re not going to fear the day until it happens. If it ever does happen, that is. And you’d rather not spend every waking moment vaguely dreading that self-foretold day. Obviously, that kind of terror doesn’t go away just by not thinking about it. Sadly, it looms over you like a reaper… if the reaper wore a silly hat and frilly dress. But so what? Until you reach that fabled day where all the youkai out there in the world are spirited away back to Gensokyo, you’re going to act like you’ll live out your whole life with Momiji, assumptions be damned.

Now, the real issue is: How do you convey all that from your head into words?

“Well…” you start. “I won’t deny that the thought eats away at me every once in a while.”

Momiji remains silent, urging you to continue with expectant eyes. You brush an absent-minded hand over her hair to try and assuage her anxiety.

“I just don’t think that, while we’re here together, we should worry so much about the what-ifs until they happen. Let’s say you’re here for ten years. Or twenty. Are you going to worry about returning back to Gensokyo every day until you finally have to go? I think our time is much more valuable than focusing on something that may happen… or may never happen.”

“So you’re okay with being blindsided by the fact that I might just up and disappear one day? Because it really could happen like that, you know.”

“It’s not that I’m okay with it. It’s that, regardless of how much time I can spend with you, I’d like to, um, cherish the moments we have together.”

“Be it ten or twenty years, as you said,” she says wistfully, pausing to settle on her words. Momiji adopts a pensive look that shifts away from her usual demeanor. “Even that’s just a passing moment. And don’t get me wrong. I think the time I’ve had with you was much more meaningful than the many tens of years I’ve wasted away. But when our time together is so short, I’ll be by myself again when we’re inevitably separated from one another. Whether that be through distance, or…”

She doesn’t bother, or need to, finish her sentence. Instead, she sits up and places her head on your shoulder. The physical distance shortens even further as she takes your hand, interlocking her fingers with yours.

As much as you’d love to promise her that you could solve the problem, you don’t exactly have the means or the capability to do so. If only you did. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that I’d love you despite the distance or, um, other complications?”

“Could you love me as if it’ll never happen?” she asks tenderly.

“That,” you say softly, “I can easily do.”

Momiji, now mostly sober, asks the one question you didn’t want to answer. “But what if it happens tomorrow?”

You’d be devastated, for one. But you’re not here to prophesize your own doom, so instead you reply, “It won’t. So don’t worry about it so much and just sleep on it.”

“Fine,” she says, despondent but still cooperative enough to let you haul her off to bed. And so you thought that was the end of the conversation, but right before you turn off the lights, she adds, with finality, “You know. Despite everything, I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

You don’t have adequate words to tell her how you feel. Rather, you demonstrate them by pulling her closer in an embrace as you drift off to sleep.

And, of course, when tomorrow becomes today, Momiji’s still here, sleeping peacefully next to you as if the conversation from last night had never happened.

Routine continues. And everything, including the excitement, falls into a slow and languid stupor. Invoices, management, balance statements, income sheets, payroll, everything—what was once foreign now is meticulously practiced at the Morning Spirits Pub.

It’s almost a shame. With all the hustle, you can barely notice that it’s the same place you’ve been working at this entire time. Not that you mind: You’d take busy, soulless, and making money over the alternative any day. And how far the place has come. In all your years at the pub, you’d never have expected actual business to be operated.

Yet, the thing about routine is how easily it is interrupted. It starts with any other usual day where you’re holed up in the back office double-checking ledgers when you hear a faint popping sound echo through the pub. The first time, you dismiss it as tinnitus from the regulars squawking at last evening’s whatever-sport match they’re watching. But the second time, it rings sharply across the walls of the building and confirms your pessimistic suspicions, so you rush over to the floor to hush the customers. Much to your chagrin, this isn’t the first time you’ve been in vicinity of a shooter. Today marks the second, though really, you would have greatly preferred if you didn’t have any experience with this shit in the first place.

Now, this is where you’d announce everyone to quiet down, but by the time you get to the front, all the customers are already pale and deathly silent. In times of duress, it’s nice to know that impending danger makes even the hellish customers shut the fuck up.

You move over to Rylee, who is currently mumbling into the front desk phone.

“How close is the shooter?” you ask.

“Three blocks down,” she whispers, cupping her hand on the phone mouthpiece. “Police are going to be here in ten.”

“Then we’ll be better off hiding rather than running. Probably for the best since we’re nearing max capacity. We’ll just stay put, hold hands, and sing Kumbaya, alright?” From the corner of your eye, you notice her hands trembling as she attempts to keep the phone level to her ear, so you place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Relax.”

“Right,” she says, still holding the phone with a death grip. But her shoulders loosen, if only so slightly, and she allows herself to finally breathe out a sigh. “I just need to convince my heart to do the same.”

“Just think about it calmly. Why would they come here of all places? And even if they had a reason to, they wouldn’t have time to get here before the cops show up.”

Of course, that is, unless the shooter actually did have a reason to come here and then beelines straight towards the Morning Spirit Pub, but you keep your intrusive thoughts to yourself. It’s historically unlikely, but the more you add qualifiers to your estimates, the more you’re going to scare her into an episode. Frankly, you’re more scared of a guy that waves a knife around, but that’s because, unfortunately, you’re more intimately acquainted with that kind of experience.

“It’ll be fine,” you reiterate—to both Rylee and yourself.

But ‘fine’ is a state of moment: one that passes far too quickly when you notice Momiji heading straight to the back door… the very same door that goes directly outbound. You scramble towards the door, only barely beating Momiji to it as you block the exit with your own body. The usual, dopey Momiji is replaced with one more befitting of the situation—one with resolve in her eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together: She’s going outside with purpose.

“...What in the hell are you trying to do, Cook?”

“Gallagher. I’m not just going to sit here all nice-like while innocent people are in danger.”

“I hate to tell you this, but you’re one of those innocent people. I don’t like the situation either, but we can leave it to law enforcement to, you know, do their jobs. Us? We’re going to hide here like the civilians we’re meant to be.”

“No. I can’t call myself the Chief Guard of anything if I don’t walk out that door.”

“But you aren’t the Chief Guard right now. As far as I’m concerned, while you’re here at the pub, you’re Cook. And I don’t want you to needlessly put yourself at risk when it’s not your responsibility.”

“Listen. There are a lot of things that I can compromise on… but I won’t budge on this one. Let me go,” she pleads. “Please.”

“What are you even going to do when you get out there? Get shot?”

“Do you really think I’d get hit? Remember, Gallagher.” She glances around first before dropping her voice to a low whisper. “I’m a wolf tengu. A trained one, at that.”

“As far as I know, youkai aren’t magically immune to bullets.”

“Then watch me.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not being anything. Is it really so ridiculous to stop something horrible from happening when I have the means to do so? If it is, then fine. Call me ridiculous.” She easily moves you aside from the door with a light tap. “Because I’m going.”

“Cook,” you say as she’s already halfway through the door. “Cook. God damn it. Miji!”

You hold the door to keep it open, but she’s already gone, disappearing faster than any human ever could.

You stew over everything that could go wrong. Of course, you’d rather not, but your mind gets the better of you. Is it reasonable and healthy? No, but if you operated under the premise that everything you do is reasonable and healthy, then you wouldn’t be here in the first place, would you?

But you know that Momiji is a big girl who can, frankly, bring a sword to a gun fight and still win. You shouldn’t let your pessimism gnaw at your sanity when, for all you know, she’s already strolling her way back because the situation’s resolved, and everything’s all hunky-dory. Right? Right. So you shouldn’t think about it any longer. Instead, you’ll just sit your ass down, definitely not think about it any more like you just mentioned, and wait.

You’re about thirty minutes into your downward mental spiral when the counter phone rings. Rylee once again picks it up, and you do your best to keep nonchalant, though the nervous bouncing of your right leg does little to dissuade you nor anyone else that you have your shit together.

“Yes? This is one of the employees speaking. Ah, yes,” she says over the phone. After a moment, her shoulders sag as she finally breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll let everyone know. Okay. Yes. Bye.”

“Good news?” you say once she hangs up.

“Yeah.” She eases into the counter as distress visibly leaves her face. “The cops got the guy, so they said all businesses are good to resume operation.”

“Right. I’ll leave it to the floor, then. Take a break if you don’t feel comfortable going back to work after all that and check up with me if you need anything else. I’ll probably be at the back office after I make a round across the floor.”

“Okay.” She leans back slightly, tilting her head up as she does so. “I think I’m alright. Just need like a minute to myself. I’m just not good with these situations, y’know, after… well. Never mind. But yeah, I’ll let you know if we need anything. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Another thirty minutes passes, but it might as well have been several hours, before Momiji slinks in through the back, looking especially guilty as she closes the door as quietly as she could. If she had expected to come in unnoticed, she’d be sorely mistaken because you’ve been staring at that damn door for the entire time since.

“Gall—”

“Cook,” you emphasize, “please see me in the back.”

Momiji’s about to voice her complaints but quickly realizes better and instead nods slowly, dropping her head in resignation.

You wait silently until she closes the door behind her. “Before you get the wrong idea,” you say, deeply sighing, “I’m not mad at you.”

“But…?” she says, waiting for you to continue.

“But nothing. Maybe I’m a fool, but I was seriously worried for you out there. Sure, you probably could dodge bullets and catch the perp, but—wait.” You pause. “Did you catch the perp?”

Nervously, she responds with, “I might’ve. And, uh, about the bullets thing…” She pulls at her jacket collar to reveal, firstly, blood dripping down her shoulder, and decidedly a bullet lodged between her upper chest and her arm. “I dodged all the vital ones, at least.”

“Holy shit, Momiji.” You drop into the office chair, leaning back all the way. Kneading your brow with a free hand, you do your best to massage away the sudden throbbing of your head. “My blood pressure can’t keep up with you.”

“I’m guessing now’s not the best time to ask if we have health insurance,” she says sheepishly, flashing you an anxious smile. Though she has her ears covered up, you could probably hazard a guess and say that they’re flattened back.

“No,” you say, a bit more sharply than you wanted to. “We don’t. But maybe it’s time to rethink that, considering our recent success and turnover rates. But I don’t think we can put ‘active shooting’ as a valid reason for workplace deductibles. Regardless, what are we going to do about your little, ah, shoulder problem?”

“I was hoping you could help me out with that.”

You look dead into her eyes, but you can’t find sarcasm anywhere in them. She really means it. “I hope you’re not expecting a medical professional out of me.” You mull over the situation as you examine her shoulder. The flesh is broken, but rather than the wound looking like, well, a gunshot, it looks like someone lodged a bullet into an already existing cavity. You avert your eyes and instead gaze straight into Momiji’s unassuming, crimson eyes.

“Do I really have to?” you ask her.

“I’m not going to force you. But, please? The alternative is that I rip it out myself.”

“Okay, fine,” you agree, not even wanting to entertain that thought. “Just. Don’t do that.”

You scramble to find everything you need—tweezers, disinfectant, gauze, and the entire damn medical kit. But should you really be doing any of this? You’re an untrained idiot, and you’re dealing with a bullet wound of all things. Still, the circumstances couldn’t be any more insane—your youkai victim has no health insurance, so in lieu of going to the hospital like any other reasonable individual, she’s cutting corners by having you do the nasty work instead. You’d say that money is no replacement for better health, but she did just shrug off a gunshot like it was a nasty papercut, so maybe it’s not a big of a deal as you had once thought.

The first damn thing that Momiji says when you get back is, “I removed it.”

The wound is, for one, still open, and she has her grubby, bloody fingers pinching the bullet casually as if she didn’t get shot.

“Dear lord, what in the fuck are you doing?” You hurriedly drag her into the bathroom and wash the wound with water and a clean towel. The blood stains the towel with a brownish-maroon color, but it was mostly dried blood from her shoulder and not from the wound itself. Once it dries, you dress the wound with gauze and wrap it all together with medical tape. Honestly, it’s no masterpiece, but it does what it’s supposed to do.

“Momiji. You’re really killing me here. I tell you not to specifically do something, and you just go and do it.”

“I’m sorry.” Momiji says, guilt tingeing her cheeks. “It was just so uncomfortable. After sitting down and waiting for you to come back, I consciously realized how much it was bothering me. I couldn’t help it. If I had to compare, it was like an itch that I had to scratch.”

You shake your head in defeat. “Just wash your hands already.”

The wolf complies, silently doing what you’ve asked of her. All the while, she thumbs the now-cleaned bullet under the soap.

She breaks her silence after a cold wash. “It was two and seven.”

“Sorry?”

“Two casualties and seven injured,” she clarifies. Momiji adopts a more solemn look. Disappointment colors her actions, and, though you can’t definitively say that it’s self-loathing that’s eating away at her, you don’t want to leave it up to debate.

“Miji. The only way you’d have been able to prevent every casualty—even if you are a youkai and all—is to turn back time.”

“Well. You were right to be nervous. If I were the old me, there would’ve been no casualties at all. And I wouldn’t have been shot—ever. But nothing was right: not me, not my physical strength, nothing.”

“Despite everything, you did stop him. So that counts for something, right?”

“I just don’t think it was enough. It wasn’t up to my own standards. He’s a human.”

“Yeah, a human shooting other humans. It’s not like you challenged him to a duel. He was just a fucked up guy who went and shot innocent people. You did your best to salvage a losing situation.”

“I… I guess. It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth knowing that I could have done more.”

“You did what you could. So don’t beat yourself up too much about it and focus instead on the more immediate problems, alright? Namely, your shoulder.”

“It’ll heal,” she says. “Resilience is the one thing I’m good for. But… thanks, Gallagher.” Despite her subdued tone, she forwardly kisses you on the cheek. “I mean it. Thanks for convincing me otherwise.”

“I’m not convincing you of anything. I’m just stating the truth,” you reassure her.