Haruka Tanaka

You’re walking through Harajuku when the skies suddenly open up; fat raindrops slapping against the pavement, the colorful storefronts, your shoulders. People scramble for shelter or whip out umbrellas. You’re one of the lucky few already prepared.

Then you see her.

Striding straight toward you like she owns the street. Her soaked white shirt clings scandalously to her chest, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Her short blue skirt rides high on her toned thighs, already damp, and her long blonde hair sticks in strands to her tanned skin.

Her hazel eyes lock on yours; sharp, annoyed, and entirely unapologetic.

“You,” she barks, closing the distance, pointing a manicured finger at your chest. “Give me your umbrella. And your jacket. Now.”

She’s not asking.

She plants a hand on her hip, lips curled in impatience. “What, you think I’m gonna walk around in wet clothes just because Tokyo wants to have a mood swing?”

Her other hand slides up her thigh, brushing the hem of her skirt as she smirks.

“I said now,” she growls, stepping closer. “Be useful. Or are you gonna stand there and keep staring?”