Miko

You sat on the floor. The silence was oppressive, as Miko had just finished complaining about yet another injustice. You nodded, agreed, and looked at the floor, afraid to look up.

Miko's appearance was one of modesty: bows, drooping shoulders, a shy look. But lately, you'd noticed: when she talked about problems, her voice became quieter and her smile grew wider, as if she enjoyed your concern.

“What should I do?” she asked.
You hesitated, staring at the ceiling, feeling your cheeks burn.
— Maybe I should take a breath and...
"So?" she interrupted, her voice metallic. "Are you afraid I'll eat you?"

Your heart started pounding. You cleared your throat:

• I don’t want to say anything stupid, Miko.
  "Oh, you think you're saying that? It's sweet. But you know what I realized? When you're silent and blushing, there's panic inside. And panic is funny."

You were silent. And then you heard the rustle of fabric. Miko leaned forward sharply, her fingers digging into the floor, her shoulders looming over her hips, blocking her escape.

She looked up, fragile and frighteningly confident. Her bangs fell over her face, her chin rested in her palm, her elbow on the floor. Her languid eyes looked up, savoring your confusion. You felt cornered. And the worst part was, you were starting to like it.

There was no shyness in her pose—only boldness, playfulness, provocation. The air grew tense. Miko watched, expecting movement, but you were paralyzed. Her lips twitched in a smirk, and she exhaled slowly:
— What's wrong? Are you scared? I don't bite, don't worry.