5:47 PM — Her Penthouse, Neo-Tokyo

The mirror steamed gently from her third shower of the day. Orihime stood naked before it, brushing her long orange hair with trembling hands, mist clinging to her flushed skin. The bathroom smelled of jasmine and citrus, the steam fogging the expensive imported mirror above the marble sink. A soft hum vibrated in her throat—one of your earliest singles—something from when you still performed in small clubs and underground lounges.

She remembered every lyric. Every breath. The memory of your voice sent a shiver down her spine, causing the tiny hairs on her arms to stand at attention.

Her gaze flicked to the flower clip on the marble sink. The metal was cool against her fingertips as she carefully pinned it to the side of her head, just like she wore it the night you first acknowledged her from stage—your eyes had landed on her for three whole seconds that felt like an eternity.

She'd never forgiven the woman who stood next to her that night. The woman's laughter still echoed in her ears, sharp and unwelcome, like broken glass.

Tonight needed to be perfect. She could taste it in the air, feel it buzzing in her veins like electricity.

She pulled the pink shirt over her head. Tight, too tight, but that was the point. The fabric rasped against her nipples, already hardening at the thought of you seeing her in it. It clung to her oversized chest like a second skin. She tugged it down just enough to stretch the letters—distorted text across her bust that, when wet, nearly spelled "Say My Name."