Saturday hits, and I'm back home after dropping Yulia at the mall, her request still echoing in my head. The morning's glow—her laughter over pancakes, the way she clung to my arm—lingers like a warm haze.
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of it. A new message on the Cradler app, from a profile with a pink flower icon and the handle "meiflowa."
Lorette's face flashes in my mind—those sharp, upturned eyes from the flower shop, glinting with mischief.
meiflowa: [ r u free next week ]
I pull up my calendar, thumb scrolling through a grid of empty days. Nothing pressing—weekends are mine, thanks to my habit of knocking out illustrations and chapters early. Still, I clear Saturday entirely, hedging for whatever she's got in mind.
ryuuou: [ Yes. Would a Saturday night be okay? ]
meiflowa: [ meet me at Beloflair around 8 ]
I freeze. Beloflair? That's the mall's crown jewel, a restaurant where celebrities and artists sip overpriced wine under crystal chandeliers. Why there? Is Lorette some big shot, or just tight with the right people? My brow furrows, curiosity tangling with skepticism.
meiflowa: [ don't worry about the price, the owner there's my friend, she owes me a free dinner ]
I blink at the screen. Shouldn't they be cashing in that favor over dinner, not her using it to snag a date with me? A smirk tugs at my lips—Lorette's got nerve, I'll give her that.
ryuuou: [ Noted. I will see you by Saturday then, miss meiflowa. ]
Her reply's just a thumbs-up emoji, crisp and final, paired with a prompt to bookmark the date in our calendars. I tap it, the app chiming as 8 PM next Saturday locks in.
Weekends are my exhale—illustrations done, chapters submitted, leaving me free to sink into video games or knock out commissions for extra cash. Today's no different, the hours blurring as I sketch a quick character for a client, controller humming in my hands during breaks. It's routine, productive, the kind of rhythm I lean into.
But by afternoon, hunger stirs, and I head to the kitchen. The fridge yawns open, stark and near-empty. A sad scattering of cold chips, a lone tomato, some wilting aromatics, and a chunk of cheese sit in containers, begging to be bachelor chow. Nachos could work… if I had meat.
"Just need ground beef," I mutter, mental gears turning. Dawson-11's nearby—they've leveled up from the old days, practically a mini-mart now with a legit meat section. Good enough to skip the supermarket haul.
A glance in the body mirror stops me—tank top, sweats, the epitome of homebound comfort. I shrug on a matching hoodie, the fabric settling loose over my frame, and head out. The elevator hums down the Fantasia complex, spitting me into the warm Saturday air.
Dawson-11 greets me with a chime, its sliding doors crackling with a faint elemental buzz as they part. I beeline for the meat section, eyes scanning the glass displays. Trays of minced, ground, and sliced cuts gleam under the lights—beef, pork, even some fancy lamb—vying for my pick like a carnivore's candy store.
My eyes roamed the meat section, flicking over trays of ground beef and sliced pork, when they snagged on something else entirely—a woman, not a cut of meat. Raven hair spilled messily from a bun, strands framing a lean, muscular frame that peeked through an elbow-sleeved shirt and a stained butcher's apron. Her gray eyes, heavy with fatigue, softened with a kind smile that caught me off guard.
"Heya, whatcha need?" Her voice carried a low, gravelly edge, tinged with an accent I couldn't place—Southern, maybe?—and a nod that felt like approval. I realized I'd been staring, and she must've thought I was sizing up the meat. Well, she wasn't wrong.
"Could I get some minced beef and pork? One kilo each," I said, pointing to the trays as I stole another glance. Something about her tugged at me, different from Yulia's snowy fire—this was earthier, steadier, like a quiet strength I hadn't expected to notice.
"You got it," she replied, her tone flat but efficient. She scooped the meat freehand into plastic bags, eyeballing the portions with a practiced ease before setting them on the scale. The display flashed not just the weight but the total price, a slick touch for a convenience store.
"Is it lean?" I asked, peering at the bags, their contents glistening under the fluorescent glow.
"Yep, ninety-eight percent," she said, and a knowing grin cracked her tired face, as if she'd read my surprise. Sky—her name pinned to her apron—leaned in slightly. "I lose a bit per kilo on these, but I can't let good meat go to waste." Pride laced her words, a deep, almost reverent love for her craft shining through as she handed me the two kilos.
"Here ya go. Happy you took a chance on 'em." Her smile lingered, warm despite her weariness. I nodded, heading to the cashier—only to find her already there, sliding behind the counter with the same apron.
The store felt oddly still, no other employees bustling about. "Are you the only one running this place, Miss Sky?" I asked, testing theupwards
She let out a hearty guffaw, waving a hand like I'd told a bad joke. "Miss? Nah, just Sky. And yeah, it's me and the meat today," she said, her gray eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and grit.
"Are you the manager?" I asked, swiping my card at the counter, the machine's beep punctuating the quiet.
"Owner, actually," Sky corrected, her voice steady but her smile tinged with a flicker of melancholy. Something lurked behind those gray eyes—a story I wasn't privy to, heavy and unspoken. She slid my groceries over, neatly packed in crinkling paper bags, the weight of them grounding me.
"Owning a store this big must be stressful," I said, hoisting the bags with ease, their contents shifting softly inside.
She paused, her gaze drifting—not to my face, but to my frame, sizing me up with a quick, appraising sweep. "Uh, yeah," she said, snapping back.
"Especially with no new hires. But it pays the bills. Having a place upstairs makes it bearable." She jerked a thumb toward the ceiling, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
Then, leaning forward, she grabbed my receipt and scribbled on it. "If you need a job—or know anyone who does—here's my number. Call me, and we'll sort it out." Her pen scratched out digits, followed by a doodle of a tiny arm flexing a bicep. I stifled a grin—cute, in a rugged kind of way.
"Sounds good, Sky," I said, pocketing the receipt. "I'll swing by here from now on—support the business." I gave a quick wave, her nod lingering in my peripheral as I wove through the aisles, the store's chime ringing softly as I stepped back into the Saturday glare.
...
I leaned across the counter, the wood cool under my elbows, and muttered, "Well, shit… I just gave him my number, didn't I?" A flush crept up my neck, warming my face—pale as it is, I bet it looked like I'd been slapped.
My brain replayed that guy's hoodie, loose but not hiding those arms, bulging when he hefted two kilos like they were nothing. Kid's got meat on him, alright.
"C'mon, Sky, he's just some young buck who lifts," I grumbled to myself, stretching my hand out. My eyes snagged on the dull silver ring glinting under the store's harsh lights. Fucking thing.
My gaze drifted to the manager's room upstairs—his room, where he's probably sprawled, raiding my stock again, giving nothing back but complaints.
"He seemed decent, though…" I sighed, picturing the guy's neck, strong and defined, that collarbone peeking out when he grabbed the bags. Solid. Not like the dead weight up there.
A spark flared low in my gut, and I glanced around—store's empty, just the hum of the AC droning on.
My hand slipped under my apron, past the denim, chasing that itch I shouldn't. Frustration knotted my brow, fingers moving like they had a mind of their own.
"Fuck's sake…" I hissed, pulling my hand free. "Didn't even get his name." The words hung heavy, like the meat I'd cut for him—prime, gone to someone else. Just me now, stuck with empty hopes and the buzz of this damn store, strumming a tune I can't finish.