Tashiro Kohaku of her previous life had died a virgin at thirty-nine years old—one of the regrets that clung to her soul even beyond death, bitter as unsweetened matcha.
The first half of that life had been stolen by social anxiety, a festering wound left behind by a kidnapping incident during her student days. She had feared the touch of others, flinched from connection, built walls so high that even kindness couldn't scale them. And the second half? Blindness and disfigurement had sealed her fate. No one wanted damaged goods, and her pride refused to settle for pity disguised as affection. She would rather die alone than marry someone who looked at her like a charity case.
So she had. Died alone, that is.
In otaku terms, she had achieved the legendary status of Dai-Majo—Great Witch—a title reserved for those who preserved their purity well past the age of thirty. Kuroha Akira, still in training for his own Dai-Mahoutsukai certification, had nothing on her decades of enforced celibacy.
Pathetic, really, she thought, watching the young man's back as he carried her toward the main shrine. All those years, and not even a kiss.
Her maiden heart had been incinerated long ago, reduced to ash by the crushing weight of reality. The ren in renai—that sweet, fluttering thing called "romance"—had been surgically removed by circumstance, leaving behind only the ai. And even that had curdled over time, fermenting into something rawer, hungrier. Desire without delusion. Want without hope.
There was an old saying she remembered from her previous world: A woman at thirty is like a wolf, at forty like a tiger, at fifty she could suck moisture from stone itself.
Crude, yes. But not inaccurate.
Now she had returned to youth—to seventeen, to the age of cherry blossoms and first loves and skin that hadn't yet learned to sag. And she was starving.
She had already developed feelings for Kuroha Akira. How could she not? He was earnest without being naive, kind without being weak, and he looked at her other self with such genuine warmth that it made something long-dormant flutter in her chest. That was why she had been willing to give him small advantages here and there—a touch that lingered too long, guidance phrased with unusual gentleness. She had told herself it was merely a big sister's affection for a promising kouhai.
Lies, she thought, inhaling the lingering scent of shrine incense and autumn leaves. Sweet, comforting lies.
She had restrained herself for two reasons. First, Shinomiya Shion's feelings for Akira were painfully obvious, and poaching another woman's target was poor form. Second—and more importantly—she had always believed that the true owner of this body was the original Tashiro Kurenai, and it would be presumptuous to give away that girl's first experience without consent.
But now?
Now that she knew her other self had fallen for the same boy?
Ara ara~ A slow, predatory smile curved her lips. All bets are off.
She couldn't go too far, of course. Even wolves knew the value of patience. But surely... just a taste wouldn't hurt?
Kuroha Akira remained blissfully unaware that the woman draped across his back had transformed into a hungry beast sizing up her prey. He simply carried her to a spot near the main shrine and set her down gently, his movements careful, almost reverent.
"Let's put on your shoes first, Kurenai-san."
"Mm, thank you, Akira-kun~"
He blinked. "Huh? Did you switch?"
"Yes, perhaps Kurenai-chan was tired from crying. She fell asleep." And by 'fell asleep,' I mean she's watching everything like a voyeur at a peep show.
Inside their shared mind, Tashiro Kurenai squeaked in protest. I-I'm not watching! I'm just... observing! For educational purposes!
Sure you are, Kohaku thought back, amused. Pay attention. You might learn something useful.
"I see." Akira nodded, oblivious to the internal conversation. "Then let her rest well."
He retrieved the pair of red high heels he'd been carrying and presented them like a knight returning a princess's glass slipper. The leather gleamed in the shrine's lamplight, elegant and impractical and painfully beautiful.
"Here, Kurenai-san. I also brought your high heels."
Kohaku tilted her head, letting her crimson hair spill over one shoulder as she studied him with obvious interest. The motion was calculated—she knew exactly how the shrine lanterns would catch the red strands, how the shadows would fall across her face.
"My, my Why did you keep carrying my shoes, I wonder?" She pitched her voice low, teasing. "Were you that eager to see my feet in heels? Could it be..." She leaned closer, close enough to smell the faint musk of his sweat and something underneath—clean cotton and a hint of sandalwood. "Akira-kun, you have a heel fetish? How naughty"
"N-No, I don't—"
I'm a foot fetishist, he corrected silently. There's a difference. An important, categorical difference that I will take to my grave.
"I just remembered these shoes are important to you," he said aloud, regaining his composure. "I originally planned to use them as emotional leverage."
'Don't you want to wear these again?!' 'Your heels are crying!' 'If you die, you'll never experience the joy of strutting in pumps!'
...Yeah. Probably better that he hadn't needed to deploy those embarrassingly chuuni lines.
"Speaking of which..." He frowned, examining the shoes more closely. "These seem too big for you? Did you buy the wrong size?"
"Ah, no." Kohaku's expression softened, something genuine flickering beneath the flirtation. "These were a 'meeting gift' from me to Kurenai-chan. The size was based on my feet from my previous life, so they're a bit large for this body."
She traced one finger along the heel's edge, the touch almost wistful.
"I was blind before. Couldn't wear anything impractical—no heels, no straps, nothing that might trip me. Just sensible flats. Boring, safe, ugly flats." Her lips twisted. "One of many things reality denied me."
"Ah... I see..."
Akira's chest tightened. Such a small detail, but it spoke volumes. A blind woman couldn't even choose her own shoes. Couldn't wear something beautiful just because she wanted to feel beautiful.
"But still," he said gently, "you should probably wear shoes that actually fit. Especially high heels. They're dangerous enough without—"
SNAP.
The sound cut through the quiet shrine grounds like a gunshot.
Kohaku had just slipped on the heels and risen to her feet—and the right heel had chosen that exact moment to shatter, sending her pitching forward with a startled cry.
"Wha—!"
Akira lunged to catch her, arms wrapping around her waist, but her momentum was too much. His heel caught on a loose stone, his balance evaporated, and then they were both falling—
THUD.
His back hit the hard-packed earth. Pain bloomed through his spine, his tailbone screaming in protest. But the sensation was immediately overwhelmed by something else entirely: softness. Warmth. A collision of face-against-chest that left him drowning in the scent of jasmine and something sweeter underneath, something warm and alive and female.
Ah, some distant part of his brain noted with academic detachment. So this is what they mean by 'lucky pervert' moments in those light novels.
The rest of his brain was too busy panicking to appreciate the irony.
"Uh—I'm sorry, Kurenai-san!" Words tumbled out in a rush, his face burning. "I think I might have broken your shoes—when I threw them earlier—they must have been damaged—this is my fault—"
Were they? Or did I help them along~?
In truth, the heel had only been slightly loosened from the earlier fall. Nothing a careful step wouldn't have accommodated. But Kohaku had chosen to stomp down hard, to engineer this exact scenario.
Inside their shared mind, Kurenai let out a sound somewhere between admiration and horror. How... how cunning! My other self is a predator!
Take notes, little one.
Kohaku shifted against him, not to get up—oh no—but to nestle closer, her curves pressing against his chest with deliberate intent. Her hands slid up his shoulders, fingertips trailing along the curve of his neck.
"Nnn~" She let out a theatrical whimper, burying her face against his collar. "My favorite heels... Kurenai-chan's gift to me... They're ruined... Uuu, I loved those shoes..."
She's... she's using the shoes as an excuse to cuddle him! Kurenai's mental voice had reached a pitch only dogs could hear. That's cheating! That's definitely cheating!
All's fair in love and war, sweetie.
"I-I'll compensate you!" Akira stammered, acutely aware of every point of contact between their bodies. The ground was cold beneath him, but she was warm, and the contrast was doing terrible things to his self-control. "I don't have money now, but once my novel gets published—I'll buy you a new pair, any pair you want—so, um, could you maybe... get up?"
"No." The word was a purr, low and dangerous. "I want compensation now."
"But I told you, I don't have—"
"You could..." Her breath ghosted across his ear, hot and damp. "...pay with your body?"
His heart stopped. Actually stopped, for at least two full seconds.
"...Kurenai-san? Tashiro-san? Onee-san?" Each name emerged more desperate than the last. "You're joking, right? This is a joke?"
"Fufu~" Her laughter vibrated through his chest. "Did you know, Akira-kun? I died a virgin in my previous life."
"Uh..." He swallowed hard. "...Me too?"
"Oh?" Genuine surprise flickered in her golden eyes. "Really? I assumed you must be experienced."
"How am I experienced—"
How indeed, she thought dryly. A beautiful girl like Shion wrapped around your finger, an all-female club devoted to you, the class president following you like a lovesick puppy...
That boy from the family restaurant—Ryota, was it?—had said as much. Kuroha Akira was living the pink-tinted youth of every rom-com protagonist. She had assumed his virginity was ancient history.
But if he was still pure... if this body could claim both their first times...
What an opportunity. Saliva pooled beneath her tongue. What a godsend.
Why hold back? Was there any reason left to hold back?
Inside their shared mind, she turned to her other self with a wolfish grin.
Hey, Kurenai-chan. Her mental voice had dropped to a hungry whisper. Should we eat him? Right now?
Kurenai's consciousness flickered—embarrassment and desire and terrified curiosity all tangled together.
Just say the word, Kohaku continued, her hands already sliding lower across Akira's shoulders. One nod from you, and I'll have him stripped bare before he can recite a single Buddhist sutra.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grip tightening with intent.