"Sorry, sorry — I think I brought half the storm in with me!"

The rain had come down sideways for the last three blocks, and by the time Hinata shouldered through the sliding door of the little ramen shop, her glasses were so fogged she nearly walked into the frame. Red paper lanterns swung overhead, their star-cutouts throwing warm gold across her cheeks, and a puddle was already forming under her boots on the entryway tile.

"Sorry, sorry — I think I brought half the storm in with me!"

She said it with that bright, slightly breathless laugh of hers, the kind that always came out when she was flustered and trying to pretend she wasn't. Her ahoge stuck straight up from the top of her damp brown hair, a single stubborn cowlick refusing to lie flat no matter how soaked the rest of her got. Water beaded on the lenses of her round glasses, on the glossy black of her cropped top, on every ridge and valley of the enormous arms she was trying, politely, to tuck closer to her sides so she wouldn't knock over the little shoe rack by the door.

It was a losing effort. Hinata's arms simply did not tuck. Her shoulders sat high and round like twin river stones polished smooth, each delt stacked in three distinct heads that caught the lantern light differently depending on how she shifted. Below them, her biceps hung heavy and full even at rest, the peaks bunched into dense, softball-shaped swells that pushed the sleeves of her yellow puffer vest out at an almost comical angle. Her triceps hung off the back of each arm in a long, clean horseshoe, and the veins that fed them traced thick cords down to forearms so wide at the belly that her wrists looked almost delicate by comparison. Every time she flexed — even accidentally, even just to push her soaked bangs out of her eyes — the muscle rolled and separated like bread dough being kneaded under translucent skin.

The old man behind the counter didn't even look up. "Usual stool, Hina-chan. Tonkotsu's almost ready."

"Ahhh, you're the best, oji-san, the best—"

She padded over, trying very hard not to drip on the other patrons, and the wet slap of her thigh-high boots on the tile was almost drowned out by the creak of the wooden stool as she lowered herself onto it. The stool was red-lacquered and round and small, and Hinata's quads — god, her quads. They spread across the seat and then kept going, the outer sweep of each leg bulging out past the edge of the cushion like a loaf that had risen too enthusiastically in its pan. Every head of the quad was visible through the sheer film of rainwater still clinging to her skin: the teardrop above the knee, the long ropy outer line, the deep split running up the middle of her thigh and disappearing under the hem of her little pleated skirt. When she crossed one ankle over the other, the entire top of her thigh shifted and bunched, and the stitching in the skirt made a small, dignified complaint.

Her abs, where the crop top ended, were arranged in that impossibly neat grid she could never quite get used to people staring at — four rows deep, each block squared off, the central line carved so cleanly it looked drawn on with a fine brush. A bead of rain traced the line down from between her pecs, caught for a moment in the dip of her navel, and kept going.

"One tonkotsu, extra chashu."

The bowl that slid in front of her was enormous — the kind they only made for her and the construction guys from the site up the road — and Hinata's whole face lit up like one of the lanterns overhead. She cupped the bowl in both hands, and her forearms moved, the brachioradialis rolling up like a fat rope under the skin as she tilted the ceramic toward herself. Steam curled up and fogged her glasses all over again. She didn't even care.

"Itadakimasuuuu—"

The first pull of noodles was, by any reasonable standard, too many noodles. She lifted the chopsticks high, head tipped back, mouth open wide, tongue out to meet them the way she'd been doing since she was a kid at her grandmother's kitchen table. Her bicep ballooned up against the curve of her jaw as she raised her arm, the peak so tall it briefly blocked her own view of the chopsticks. A long curl of noodle dangled down and draped itself across her pec and onto the black latex of her top, and she let out a tiny, embarrassed "mmph" around her mouthful.

Behind her, a salaryman two stools down kept very pointedly not looking. The old man behind the counter chuckled and wiped a glass.

Hinata chewed, swallowed, exhaled a little cloud of steam into the cold air of the shop, and beamed down at her bowl like it had personally saved her life. Outside, the rain kept sheeting against the windows, the mountains beyond them ghostly and gray. Inside, the lanterns swung gently, and the smell of pork broth and ginger filled every corner of the little room.

She picked up the bowl again with both hands — the triceps on the underside of her arms flaring out into long, thick crescents — and took a slow, careful sip straight from the rim.

"Mmmmh. Worth the walk."

A drop of rain finally rolled off the very tip of her ahoge and landed with a soft plip in the broth.

Hinata giggled, fished it out with her chopsticks, and kept eating.