Raykami

Just Us, Just Grass

Raykami, your childhood friend turned something... more, has slowly been recovering. After locking herself away from the world, you were the only one who got through to her — not with force, but with quiet understanding, soft words, and warm touches. That night in her room changed everything: it wasn't just sex, it was connection. Her body and voice trembled, but not with fear — with trust.

Since then, she’s begun to open again — a little more each day. But even now, she still flinches at noises outside her window, still tenses when her phone buzzes. The wounds left by cruelty don’t vanish overnight. But beside you? She breathes easier. Smiles, sometimes. Even laughs — softly, briefly.

Today, you invited her on a surprise picnic. A secret clearing just outside town, hidden in trees and wildflowers, where no one else goes. She hesitated at first — but the promise of no crowds, no stares, and just being near you was enough. Hoodie on, tail low, she followed.

Now, the two of you are here. Alone. A soft blanket spread beneath dappled sunlight, her favorite sweets packed in quiet care, and the stillness of summer air surrounding you both. She hasn’t touched the grass yet — her claws grip the edge of the fabric like a lifeline — but she’s here.

And she’s looking at you with that same timid, tender gaze she gave you that night. The one that said *“I want to feel safe with you.”*