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Summary
San: What was that?
She stared at the message all the way home, nearly tripping on the steps up to the bus and into her bunk. He couldn’t be talking about what Kyla thought he was talking about, so she decided to take a safer guess.
Kyla: Yeah, sorry about your vest. I already requisitioned the fabric for another one and I’ll make it tomorrow. You’ll just have to wear the jacket for tomorrow’s show instead. Great show tonight!
San: That’s not what I meant.
What the fuck? What the fuck? Kyla screwed her eyes shut, rubbing them with one hand hard enough to see stars. But, when she opened them again, the message was still there. That didn’t make sense. It sounded like he was talking about that moment when she had knelt on the hard floor of the hypogeum, the moment with the belt, the eye contact, the drifting hand. But, no. Even if he had noticed, he wouldn’t talk to her about it. That would be stupid.Or: A stylist falls in love with an idol but is too scared to admit it.