Chapter 367: Morning in a Room That's Finally Hers
Karenbana woke the way she always woke—alert, already halfway annoyed at something she hadn't even identified yet—then immediately froze, because for the first time in what felt like forever, the air around her didn't smell like someone else's sweat, someone else's cheap soap, someone else's bad decisions.
It smelled like clean linen, sun-warmed wood, and the faintest ghost of jasmine drifting in from somewhere outside.
Her eyes cracked open more fully. The ceiling above her was smooth and pale, not stained with damp. The bed beneath her didn't creak like it was threatening to collapse under the weight of her existence. The sheets didn't itch. The pillow didn't smell like an old man's breath or Kongō's "I fought a bear and won" musk. The blanket was heavy in the good way—like it wanted her to stay, not like it wanted to smother her.
She laid there for a few breaths, letting it sink into her bones.
Alone.
Private.
No snoring wall-of-meat shaking the floorboards. No Ishidate quietly sharpening paranoia in the corner while pretending he was "just thinking." No mercenaries outside a paper-thin door laughing too loud, burping too freely, or doing that thing men did where they tried to sound dangerous when they were actually just insecure.
Just her.
And the ocean, somewhere beyond the walls, breathing steadily like something massive and patient.
Karenbana sat up slowly, stretching her arms above her head until her shoulders popped, then let out a long exhale that sounded suspiciously like a purr. Her nightclothes clung to her in a way that was more comfortable than proper: soft fabric, slightly worn, the kind of outfit you wore when you intended to sleep and didn't care who approved. It wasn't fancy. It wasn't dramatic. It didn't have a swish, a shimmer, or a threatening sleeve designed to conceal a weapon.
Which was exactly why it felt so obscene.
She swung her legs off the bed and padded across the floor, bare feet sinking into a rug that was thick enough to be indulgent and clean enough to be suspicious. Her reflection waited for her in the mirror near the wardrobe—warm morning light spilling across the glass, catching her face before she could put the usual armor back on.
No wig.
No long shaggy white hair to frame her like a doll. No grey headband, no blush carefully placed to control what people assumed. Just her real hair: short, brown, boyish in a way that made strangers misjudge her age and make dumb, fatal mistakes. It stuck up a little in the back where she'd slept on it, and for a moment she looked… softer. Not weaker. Just unassembled.
Karenbana stared at herself, then huffed a laugh through her nose.
"Well," she informed the mirror, voice low and sleepy, "good morning to me. Still short. Still loud. Still… tragically not blessed in the chest department."
She angled her body slightly, squinting as if it would help.
The sleep outfit—loose in some places, clingy in others—showed more skin than she'd ever allow in front of most people. Not because she was shy, but because she understood the world too well. People saw what they wanted to see, and she refused to let them decide who she was based on whatever part of her they found easiest to categorize.
Still, the fabric dipped and clung enough that if someone walked in right now, they'd probably choke on their own tongue.
Karenbana tilted her head and smirked at herself, all sharp teeth and satisfaction. "Not much to show off," she admitted, then pointed a finger at her reflection like it was an enemy. "But this outfit would still make someone blush, wouldn't it? Because it's not about what you have. It's about the audacity."
The mirror, unfortunately, did not applaud her.
She exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing over the fabric, as if she could will them into something more. If she could choose, she'd want them fuller—rounder, heavier, the kind that would spill just slightly when she leaned forward, the kind that would make a man's gaze linger just a second too long. Not obscene, not exaggerated, but present. The kind that would press against a man's chest when he pulled her close, the kind that would bounce just a little when she moved, the kind that would make her feel seen in a way that wasn't just about her wit or her wig or the way she could throw a kunai with deadly precision.
Her fingers curled into the fabric, tugging it just slightly, as if she could stretch it into something else. But the truth was, she didn't hate them. They were part of her, small and stubborn and unapologetic, just like the rest of her. She just wished, sometimes, that they matched the rest of her presence—the way her personality filled a room, the way her laughter carried, the way her confidence could make even the most arrogant shinobi hesitate. She wished her body could do that too—command attention without her having to perform it.
She shifted again, letting the light catch the way the fabric clung to her, the way her nipples—small and dark—pressed just slightly against the material. She traced a finger along the neckline, imagining for a moment what it would be like to have just a little more. Enough to fill a man's hands, enough to make her feel womanly in a way that didn't require her to sharpen her tongue or arch her brow. Enough to make Malik's golden-pink eyes darken with something other than amusement when he looked at her.
She huffed a laugh, shaking her head at her own thoughts. It wasn't that she needed it. She'd spent years turning her small frame into a weapon, her sharpness into a shield. But for once, just once, she wanted to feel soft in a way that didn't require her to be anything but herself.
She rolled her eyes, turned away, and crossed the room to the wide window seat that hugged the wall like the resort had built it specifically for people who needed a place to perch and brood dramatically. The glass looked out over the beach and ocean, and the view was so open it felt like a dare. Sunlight danced on the water. The line where sky met sea was clean and sharp, like the world had been drawn with intention.
Her room, tucked into a more private wing than the others, had angles that kept her away from the main traffic of the resort. Not isolated—never isolated, not here, not with seals in the walls and "staff" who moved like blades—but private enough that she could exist without being observed every second.
Karenbana liked being observed when she chose it. She liked being a spectacle.
She hated being watched like prey.
She settled onto the window seat, pulled a small bowl of fruit closer—someone, sometime, had placed it there like an offering—and began eating slowly. Citrus first. Something sweet and cool after. The juice ran down her fingers and she licked it off without thinking, gaze drifting out to the water.
For a while, she let herself do nothing.
Not plan. Not posture. Not pretend to be unbothered.
Just… breathe.
It felt dangerous, how quickly her body accepted the comfort. How easily her shoulders lowered. How her spine stopped bracing for impact. Like the resort was rewiring her with softness, and she hated how much she liked it.
Malik's place, she thought, jaw tightening slightly around a bite of fruit. Malik's sanctuary. Malik's… ridiculous wealth and ridiculous kindness and ridiculous ability to make people feel like they mattered without begging for it.
Her mind tried, automatically, to reduce it into something manageable. A trap. A game. A performance.
But every time she reached for cynicism, she kept bumping into the same wall:
He didn't need to do any of this.
He didn't need to feed them like honored guests. He didn't need to give them rooms designed for rest and not control. He didn't need to look at her like she was… real.
That was the part that refused to sit neatly in her head. The part that kept rising up like a bubble in a drink, popping against the surface no matter how she pressed it down.
She shifted, tucking one knee up, bowl balanced in her lap, and stared out at the ocean until the horizon blurred slightly.
What would it be like, she wondered, to wake up like this for the rest of her life?
Not in this exact room, maybe. Not even on this island. But in a place where she wasn't borrowing space. Where she didn't have to calculate how long she could stay before someone wanted her gone. Where she wasn't always performing just to be taken seriously.
A place where she could build something.
A place where she could rise—and drag her people up with her whether they liked it or not.
Her fingers tightened around a slice of fruit. She exhaled slowly through her nose, annoyed at herself for thinking like this at all. It felt like temptation. It felt like weakness.
And yet…
Her chest gave a small, strange ache that wasn't pain. More like… longing.
As if something in her had always been waiting for the possibility of staying.
A knock sounded at her door.
Karenbana froze so hard it was almost comedic.
Her first thought was immediate and sharp: Training already? Her second thought was even sharper: Who has the audacity to knock on my door when I am in my soft era?
She glanced down at herself, then scowled. The outfit suddenly felt like a crime scene. She wasn't embarrassed—she refused to be embarrassed—but she wasn't about to hand some random mercenary an image they could drool over later like a prize.
Another knock. Polite. Controlled. Not insistent.
Karenbana slid off the window seat, fruit bowl abandoned, and snatched up her long white vest from where she'd draped it the night before. She threw it over her shoulders in one swift motion, not bothering to close it properly, just using it as a barrier—an immediate reclaiming of her usual silhouette. The vest hung open, brushing her calves, and the familiar weight settled on her like armor.
She walked to the door with measured steps, making sure she looked like she belonged in her own space, not like she'd been caught in it.
Then she cracked the door open.
At first she saw only pink and gold.
Malik stood in the hall like the morning had been designed for him: expensive fabrics, soft glow, that warm, radiant brown skin that made him look kissed by sunlight even indoors. His hair was dark and curly, slightly messy in a way that looked intentional on him and like a crime on everyone else. His eyes—pink mixed with gold—lifted toward the crack in the door with a smile already forming, like he'd been waiting for the chance to see her again.
He held a plate of pastries and baked goods balanced carefully in his hands—sweet rolls, flaky things dusted with sugar, little buns that smelled faintly of butter and citrus.
And—this did not escape her—he was smoothing his clothes with his thumbs as if he'd suddenly realized he was being inspected.
That, more than anything, made Karenbana's mouth curve.
Oh. So he could be flustered.
His gaze shifted, caught her eyes through the narrow gap, and his smile softened into something warmer than polite.
"Good morning," he said, voice gentle and rich, like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. "Did I wake you?"
Karenbana leaned against the doorframe, blocking the view of her room like a guard. "No," she lied instantly. "I've been awake for hours. Contemplating the ocean. Becoming one with nature. Being mysterious."
Malik's eyebrows lifted, amused. "Naturally."
Her eyes dropped briefly to the pastries. "And what's that?"
"A peace offering," he said easily. "And breakfast."
"You think you can bribe me with pastries?"
"I think," Malik replied, tone warm and unbearably sincere, "that I would like to give you something pleasant without asking for anything in return."
Karenbana stared at him for a beat too long, suspicious of her own chest for doing that stupid thing where it tightened around words that weren't threats.
Then she stepped back and opened the door wider. "Fine," she said, making it sound like charity. "Come in before you drip sugar all over my hallway."
Malik's smile widened. He stepped inside, careful and unhurried, as if entering her space mattered. As if he understood the difference between being allowed in and taking it.
Karenbana shut the door behind him and turned.
The moment Malik saw her fully—vest thrown over her, hair short and messy, eyes bright and bare—his gaze flickered in a way she recognized: appreciation, yes, but also that quick, honest recalibration people did when they were trying not to stare too hard.
He looked like a man standing at the edge of temptation and attempting to remain civilized about it.
Which, naturally, made her want to be difficult.
Malik cleared his throat softly and shifted the plate. "I… won't take much of your time. I'm leaving soon."
Karenbana's brows rose. "Leaving the island?"
"Yes," Malik said. "By late morning. My people want to stay in the sun a little longer—Aya and Risa especially—but I have obligations elsewhere. The Moon doesn't reform itself just because I take a vacation."
"You're ridiculous," Karenbana said automatically.
"I know," Malik agreed, as if proud of it.
He walked a few steps into the room and set the plate down on a low table near the window seat. The movement was casual, but Karenbana noticed the care in it. He didn't intrude deeper than necessary. He didn't touch anything that wasn't offered.
Then he turned back to her, hands folding lightly.
"I came," he said, and there was a subtle shift in his voice—less playful, more honest—"because I needed to speak with you again before I go. Not about business. Not about plans. Not about the Moon Kingdom. Just… you."
Karenbana crossed her arms, the vest pulling slightly across her front. "You already spoke with me," she said, trying for dismissive and landing somewhere near guarded. "Yesterday. You heard plenty."
"I heard," Malik said softly, "what you chose to give."
His eyes held hers steadily, warm but intent. "And I want to know more. Not to collect it like information. Not to use it. Because I—" He paused, and for a moment he looked almost irritated with himself, like honesty was a habit he couldn't stop. "Because I liked you. Immediately. And I don't trust myself to ignore that just because it's inconvenient."
Karenbana's pulse made a very rude jump.
She tilted her head, lips curving with a practiced smirk. "So you came to confess you have poor impulse control."
Malik laughed once, quietly. "I came to confess I have strong impulses and I'm trying to handle them with manners."
"That's almost worse," she said, though her tone had softened.
His gaze flicked to her hair—short, brown, unhidden—and his expression warmed further. "You look beautiful like this," he said simply.
Karenbana's mouth opened, then closed. She narrowed her eyes. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting," Malik said, entirely unrepentant. "I'm continuing."
She scoffed, but her cheeks warmed anyway—annoying. She shifted her weight, then made a decision with the same internal logic she used when throwing a kunai: If you're going to be flustered, at least make it useful.
Karenbana let her arms drop. Then, slowly, deliberately, she shrugged her shoulders and let the vest slide off.
It fell to the floor in a soft, lazy heap.
The air changed immediately.
Malik's eyes widened just slightly—just enough to be honest—before his expression tightened into that gentlemanly control she'd seen him wield like a weapon. His gaze didn't become crude. It didn't become greedy. But it did become… focused. Like his brain had to remind itself to keep breathing.
Malik's breath hitched as the vest slipped from Karenbana's shoulders, pooling at her feet like discarded armor. The morning light spilled across her, painting her skin in gold and shadow, revealing the soft, unguarded lines of her body. The loose sleep top she wore was thin, nearly translucent in the sunlight, clinging to her in a way that left nothing to the imagination. The fabric outlined the small but perfectly perky shape of her breasts, the nipples already tight with arousal, pressing against the material in a way that made Malik's fingers twitch with the effort of not reaching out.
The sleep top dipped low, the neckline loose and uneven, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone, the delicate hollow of her throat. Her skin was smooth, warm-toned, the kind of complexion that made her look like she'd been kissed by the sun. The faintest dusting of freckles scattered across her shoulders and chest, a detail that made her seem even more real, more human.
Malik's gaze drifted lower, taking in the way the fabric clung to her waist, the soft flare of her hips, the way her legs—toned and strong—carried her with a confidence that was impossible to ignore. The sleep top ended mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare, the muscles defined but still feminine, the kind of strength that came from years of training, of living. Her feet were small, the toes painted a soft pink, the nails short and practical, the kind of detail that made Malik's chest ache with something suspiciously like tenderness.
He forced his gaze back to her face, to the way her dark eyes gleamed with mischief, the way her lips—full, soft, painted a deep red—curved into a smirk that was equal parts challenge and invitation. Her hair, short and brown, stuck up in places where she'd slept on it, giving her a boyish, almost vulnerable look that contrasted sharply with the confidence in her stance. She was small, yes, but not fragile. Not weak. There was a strength in her, a fire that burned bright and unapologetic, the kind of woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.
Malik's hands clenched at his sides, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure. He wanted to reach out, to trace the lines of her body, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. He wanted to pull her close, to taste the way her lips would part beneath his, to hear the way her breath would hitch as he explored every inch of her. But he wouldn't. Not like this. Not when she was standing before him, bare and unguarded, trusting him with a version of herself she didn't show to anyone else.
"You're beautiful," Malik said, his voice rough with admiration, with restraint. His golden-pink eyes met hers, unwavering, honest. "Every part of you."
Karenbana's smirk faltered for just a second, her breath catching in her throat. She wasn't used to being seen like this—not like this, not with the kind of reverence that made her chest tighten. She was used to being looked at, to being wanted, but this was different. This was the way Malik looked at her, like she was something precious, something worth the effort of holding back.
She tilted her head, her gaze searching his face, looking for the catch, the lie, the moment where he would break the spell and remind her that this was just another game. But there was nothing. Just Malik, standing before her, his hands still clenched at his sides, his breath steady, his eyes warm with something that looked suspiciously like devotion.
"You're insufferable," she said, but her voice lacked its usual bite. She took a step closer, close enough that she could see the way his pulse jumped in his throat, the way his breath hitched as she invaded his space. "You know that, right?"
Malik's grin was slow, triumphant. "And you love it."
Karenbana didn't deny it; instead, she lifted her chin, pleased. "Oh?" she purred. "What's the matter, Malik? You look a little warm."
"I'm fine," Malik said, voice slightly too smooth.
Karenbana stepped closer, the movement slow, theatrical. "You sure? Because you're blushing."
"I am not," Malik lied.
"You are," she said, delighted. "And I haven't even done anything."
"You dropped your vest," Malik said, as if that explained the entire universe.
"And?" Karenbana asked sweetly. "It's my room."
Malik's gaze flicked up to her eyes again, forcing himself back to her face with obvious effort. When he spoke, his voice was gentler, almost reverent despite the teasing.
"You're stunning," he said. "Not because of what you're showing. Because of how you show it. Like you're daring the world to be brave enough to look."
Karenbana's throat tightened with something she did not want to name. She swallowed it down and smirked. "Careful," she warned. "If you keep talking like that, I'll start believing you."
"I mean it when I say it," Malik replied immediately. "That's the problem."
She stared at him for a beat, thrown off by the speed of his sincerity, then recovered with a huff. "Fine. Compliment accepted. Now stop staring like you're trying to memorize me."
Malik's smile turned wickedly amused. "I am trying to memorize you."
Karenbana's eyes narrowed. "You're bold for a man who claims to have manners."
"I do have manners," Malik said. "I'm just not afraid of you."
"That's your second mistake," she said, and stepped back, letting the tension stretch instead of snap.
Malik exhaled slowly, then—because he was Malik and he couldn't help himself—his gaze flicked to her eyes again. "Your eyes," he said, voice softer. "That pink… it suits you like it was made for you."
Karenbana's smirk returned, sharper. "You'd know. Yours are pink too."
Malik blinked, then laughed, the sound warm. "They are."
She leaned her head slightly to the side. "Why? I've never seen anyone with eyes like yours. Pink and gold? It looks like you stole sunrise."
Malik lifted one shoulder in a small shrug that somehow still looked elegant. "Magic, Old bloodlines, and maybe a god or two will do that to a man," he said lightly, then his tone turned playful, conspiratorial. "And—if you want the truth—back in the day, they were all pink."
Karenbana squinted. "All pink."
"All pink," Malik repeated, amused at her disbelief. "No gold. Just… pink. Like crushed rose petals in sunlight."
"And now you're telling me they evolved into 'luxury edition'?" Karenbana scoffed. "Gold added for dramatic flair?"
Malik's eyes danced. "Maybe I just got older and my eyes decided to become more expensive."
Karenbana barked a laugh. "Ridiculous."
"Yes," Malik said, pleased. "But you're smiling."
She rolled her eyes so hard it should've hurt, then finally—because she could only stand in the middle of her room half-dressed and flirting for so long before it started feeling like she was losing a game she hadn't agreed to play—she reached down, grabbed the vest, and tossed it over the back of a chair rather than putting it on.
"Sit," she ordered, gesturing at the bed like she owned him.
Malik's brows rose. "Yes, ma'am."
Karenbana froze. "Don't call me that."
Malik sat anyway, settling on the edge of the bed with careful ease, posture relaxed but respectful. Karenbana sat too, but she angled herself toward him like a challenge, knees tucked slightly, hands braced behind her.
Up close, she could see the way his eyes shifted when he focused—how the gold warmed, how the pink deepened. She could see the faint glow in his skin like he carried sunlight under it. He looked too soft to survive the world and somehow had survived it anyway.
Malik glanced around her room briefly, taking in the private layout, the window seat, the ocean view. "You like it," he observed.
Karenbana sniffed. "It's acceptable."
"You like it," he repeated, smiling.
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't act like you know me."
"I'm trying to," Malik said simply.
Karenbana's stomach did that annoying flip again.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. "I said I didn't come to talk business," he continued, voice quieter now. "And I won't. The Moon can wait a day. The politics can wait. Shabadaba can wait. Your clan's future can wait."
Karenbana blinked, startled by how easily he said it.
"But you," Malik said, eyes steady on hers, "I don't want to wait on."
She scoffed automatically. "You talk like a romance novel."
"I feel like a romance novel," Malik replied cheerfully, then softened again. "Karenbana… I want to know what you want."
She tilted her head. "I already told you."
"You told me what you want in a man," Malik corrected gently. "I want to know what you want for yourself. When you stop performing. When you stop proving. When you stop fighting the world just to be treated like you exist."
Karenbana's throat tightened.
Her first instinct was to bark, to deflect, to throw a joke like a smoke bomb and vanish behind it.
Instead, she said, quieter, "I want… to stop being underestimated."
Malik nodded once, as if that was sacred.
"And," Karenbana continued, jaw tightening, "I want control. Not over everything. Not like Ishidate tries to do. But over… me. Over what happens to me. Over what I'm allowed to become."
Malik's gaze warmed. "You deserve that."
Karenbana huffed. "Obviously."
His smile flickered—fond. "And your hair," he said, shifting gently, "is part of that, isn't it?"
Karenbana stiffened slightly. "What about it."
Malik's hand lifted, palm open, not touching. "You hide behind the wig because it lets you choose what people see first. The white hair, the dramatic silhouette, the performance. It makes you look like a rumor walking."
Karenbana stared at him. He'd seen too much.
"I could help," Malik said softly.
Karenbana's eyes narrowed, suspicious again. "Help how."
"My magic," Malik said, voice careful, "can grow your hair. I can make it long if you want. And if you like the white—if you like the way it frames you, the way it changes the room when you enter—I can turn it white too. Not a wig. Not a disguise. Your hair. Yours."
Karenbana's breath caught.
The idea hit her harder than it should have.
Not because she hated her real hair. She didn't. She'd cut it short for practicality and survival. She'd worn wigs because the world treated her differently depending on what it saw. She'd built her image like a weapon.
But the thought of having the look she wanted—without artifice, without apology—felt like someone offering her a crown and saying, You don't have to steal it. I'll place it on your head because I think you deserve it.
Karenbana's voice came out sharper than she meant. "Why would you do that?"
Malik's smile softened. "Because you want it."
Karenbana frowned. "That's not enough."
Malik's gaze held hers. "It is for me."
She stared at him for a long moment, then looked away toward the window, jaw tight like she was trying not to let the ache show on her face.
"I'll think about it," she muttered.
"I'm not asking for an answer today," Malik said gently. "I'm just telling you it's an option. A gift, if you want it."
Karenbana swallowed, then forced her eyes back to him. "You're dangerous," she said flatly.
Malik's smile turned rueful. "I know."
"And not in the fun way," she added, because she couldn't help herself.
Malik chuckled. "Sometimes in the fun way."
Karenbana snorted, then—because the conversation was getting too real, too close to places in her that weren't armored—she leaned forward slightly and narrowed her eyes again. "You still want that kiss."
Malik's expression shifted. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just… honest.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I do."
Karenbana studied him, watching for the usual tells men gave when they wanted something. Pressure. Impatience. Entitlement.
She found none.
Instead she found a man sitting on the edge of her bed like he was trying not to scare her, even though she was the one with knives.
"And?" Karenbana challenged, voice sweet again to regain control. "What makes you think you'll get it?"
Malik tilted his head slightly. "Hope."
Karenbana's mouth twitched. "That's pathetic."
"It's romantic," Malik corrected, amused.
Karenbana leaned closer, just enough that he would feel her presence without her touching. "You're leaving."
"Yes."
"So you want to steal a kiss and run," she said, eyes glittering. "Coward."
Malik's brows rose. "If I asked to steal it, I would be a coward. So I'm not asking to steal it."
Karenbana paused. "Then what are you asking."
Malik's voice softened, steady as a hand offered in the dark. "I'm asking you to give it. Because you want to. Not because I'm leaving. Not because you feel obligated. Not because it would be convenient for your pride."
Karenbana's pulse hit her ribs again, hard.
She sat back slightly, eyes narrowing in irritation at how carefully he handled her. It was infuriating. It made it harder to dismiss him. Harder to treat this like a game she could win by being sharper.
"Fine," she said, as if granting permission to exist. "Hypothetically. If I did give you a kiss. What then."
Malik smiled, warm and bright. "Then I would leave with something I'm allowed to miss."
Karenbana's throat tightened. She scowled at him like it was his fault.
"You're too good at this," she muttered.
"At wanting you?" Malik asked.
Karenbana's cheeks warmed. "At talking."
Malik's smile turned softer again. "Karenbana," he said, quietly, "I don't want to rush you. I don't want to make you feel cornered. But I also don't want to pretend I don't feel what I feel."
She stared at him, and for a moment the room felt too bright, too clean, too honest.
Karenbana's voice came out lower. "And what do you feel."
Malik's eyes held hers. "Affection," he said plainly. "Curiosity. Desire. Respect." His mouth curved, almost shyly. "And… a little fear."
Karenbana blinked. "Fear?"
Malik nodded once. "Because you matter. And when someone matters, you can hurt them without meaning to. I don't want to do that."
Karenbana stared at him like he'd just handed her a blade and asked her not to cut anyone.
"You're ridiculous," she whispered.
Malik's smile turned fond. "Yes."
Karenbana inhaled slowly, then exhaled, gaze dropping briefly to his mouth before she could stop herself. The thought of kissing him made her stomach twist—half thrill, half terror, like stepping onto a stage with no script.
She looked back into his eyes instead and forced a smirk. "If I kiss you," she said, voice turning teasing again, "you're going to blush worse."
"I might," Malik admitted.
Karenbana's eyes glittered with wicked delight. "Good."
Then, because she was Karenbana and she refused to do anything gently if she could do it with drama, she reached out and hooked two fingers lightly into the front of his collar, tugging him closer just enough to steal his balance without hurting him.
Malik's breath hitched—small, honest.
Karenbana held him there, close enough that he could feel her heat, close enough that she could see the gold in his eyes flicker brighter.
"Say please," she murmured.
Malik smiled, and it was soft, and it was real, and it made her chest ache.
"Please," he said.
Karenbana's smirk faltered for one heartbeat—just long enough for the truth to slip through her defenses.
Then she leaned in.
And before her lips touched his, she paused—just barely—and whispered against the space between them, like a warning and a confession at once:
"Don't make me regret this."
Malik's voice was even softer. "I won't."
Karenbana closed the last inch.
The kiss was brief—no desperation, no greed—just contact, warm and steady, the kind of kiss that didn't try to take more than it was given. It tasted faintly like sugar and morning tea and the sea breeze sneaking through the window.
When she pulled back, Malik's eyes were half-lidded, his face unmistakably flushed.
Karenbana's smile returned immediately, triumphant. "Oh, you're adorable," she said, pleased as a cat.
Malik laughed under his breath, the sound dazed. "You did that on purpose."
"Of course I did," Karenbana said.
Malik lifted one hand slowly—not touching her, not daring—just hovering near her cheek as if to memorize her without claiming her. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Karenbana scoffed. "Don't get sentimental."
"I'm already sentimental," Malik replied.
Karenbana rolled her eyes, but her expression softened anyway. "Fine. Go do your politics. Go be a menace to the Moon Kingdom."
Malik's smile turned bright again. "I will."
He stood, adjusting his clothes—still a little flustered, still a little pink around the cheeks. Karenbana watched him like she'd just proven something important and hadn't decided what it was yet.
He glanced back once before reaching the door. "Think about the hair," he said gently. "Not for me. For you."
Karenbana's jaw tightened. "I said I'd think."
Malik's eyes warmed. "That's enough."
He opened the door, then paused, looking at her one last time like he wanted to keep her in his pocket and knew he couldn't.
"Karenbana," he said softly.
She lifted her chin. "Yes."
Malik's smile curved. "You really are loud."
Karenbana blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "That's not a compliment."
"It is," Malik said, and stepped into the hallway.
Karenbana shut the door slowly, leaning her forehead against the wood for a second like she was trying to reboot her brain.
Her lips tingled.
Her chest felt too full.
And the worst part—truly the most insulting, unbearable part—was that she was smiling.
"Ridiculous man," she murmured to the empty room.
But it didn't sound like an insult.
It sounded like she'd just named something she intended to keep.