“Speaking of which, Little Ash.”

“What, Dad?”

“Can you grow bigger?”

“Bigger?”

He kicked off shoes and socks. He tucked his legs in and rested his head on the sofa arm, melting into the cushions like dusk soaking into a pond—the perfect TV potato.

In high summer, a few frosty colas sweating on the coffee table would crown the scene like beads of rain on bamboo.

If you still wanted to gild the lily, a soft short-haired girl would be the final brushstroke, like a swallow landing on a quiet eave.

Just like Ye Weibai now—sofa + cola + soft girl, a complete set like moon, water, and ripples—though this girl was tiny, almost too tiny, like a plum blossom carved in miniature.

“Bigger?”

Little Ash lay face-down on Ye Weibai’s chest, wide open and unguarded like a kitten in sun. Her hands cupped her chin. She tilted her head over a stray comic, gray short hair spilling like ash over half her face.

Under her sailor skirt, two pale, tender calves swung up and down like willow twigs in wind. Her little feet kicked his chest with playful taps, and the skirt’s hem slipped, revealing round, sculpted thighs like smooth river stones.

Hearing his question, the girl tilted her head, thoughts fluttering like moths to a lantern. “I think… maybe?”

“Hm? Really?” Ye Weibai had only tossed the question like a pebble, but it landed with ripples—she might actually do it.

“Little Ash isn’t super sure, but we can try!” At Dad’s request, she sprang up, bright as a firework.

Ye Weibai’s face shifted, a cloud skimming the sun. “Try? Hey, wait, first—”

Bang—!

Before the words landed, gray light poured off Little Ash, a tidal veil that blotted his sight like fog rolling in from a cold river.

The next instant, his chest sank under sudden weight, like a sandbag dropped on a drum; his eyes rolled, breath snagging like a kite in a tree.

“It really works!”

Her voice floated from behind the gray mist, older by a shade, delighted like bells in a temple breeze. Then a bare, pale arm slipped from the fog and looped his neck, warm as spring water.

Whoosh—

Right then, wind surged through the window like a restless tide. The gray particles thinned, and a lithe, naked silhouette of a maiden shimmered in and out like moonlight through reeds.

“Mm, I can’t see anything.”

She grumbled, the sound like a pouty sparrow. Little Ash lifted her head from the mist. Short hair swayed like grass tips. She sat on Ye Weibai’s waist, pressed his chest, and rose in one smooth motion like a lotus uncoiling.

His mouth parted; his pupils snapped to pinpoints, like stars squeezed at dawn.

This had nothing to do with romance, no wind or moonlit mood—only that the scene that fell into Ye Weibai’s eyes was bright as a fresh bloom in rain.

Back at her full size, Little Ash straddled Ye Weibai’s waist. She straightened from the gray haze, a willow-slim waist tightening like a bowstring. Her jade-like neck rose as her gray short hair flew up like a startled sparrow.

Her luminous, naked figure hid and revealed within the mist, half-veiled like a lute half-cloaked behind sleeves, more alluring for what it didn’t show, like starlight under gauze.

Against the light, the girl stood in a column of glow. Countless gray particles danced up and down around her like a veil of nocturnal Stardust. In her gray eyes, the same particles boiled and burned like embers, while her smile shone bright as a polished moon.

Ye Weibai stopped breathing, a lake gone still.

If you’ve seen dead wood wake to spring, or a night-blooming flower flare and fade, or a butterfly tear the cocoon, you know his heart—struck like a bell under rain.

No wind, no moon. No romance.

It was a tilt of the heart baptized by life bursting open like sunlight through cloud.

“Honored Father.” Little Ash’s smile was clear as water; her eyes glimmered as she looked at Ye Weibai. “I—”

The next moment, everything scattered like mist at noon.

“I think… I can’t hold it. Waa~”

Bang—!

As if Time rewound, gray particles thrashed and dove back into Little Ash like a river reversing its course. Her body shrank between breaths to Doll-size, small as a sparrow’s cup.

She spun midair like a maple leaf and fell fast.

Plop.

Ye Weibai caught her steady, hands like firm soil.

“Huh? Huh? Huh?!” She sat up, rubbing her little backside, dazed like a chick. She looked herself over once, then her face crumpled, and she turned to her father, tears budding like dew. “Ah! Little Ash is all smooth! Little Ash’s clothes are gone!”

Gone was normal—the fabric was ordinary cloth, not Ant-Man tech that grows and shrinks. When she grew, the outfit tore like paper in rain.

Ye Weibai stared at the bare girl standing in his palm, urgent and aggrieved, no trace of that cloudlike fairy’s airy grace—yet he felt his heart tug toward this childlike Little Ash, this Doll-bodied sprite who called him “Dad” in a milky voice like sweet rice.

“Little Ash?”

“Ah-ah?”

“You’re adorable.” He laughed, lifted her to his cheek, and nuzzled her tiny head like a cat rubbing sun-warm stone.

“Ah—ah ah—ow, ow ow! You’ve got stubble! Dad! You’ve got stubble!”

…

…

“How’s that?”

“The size is fine, but I don’t really like green, Dad.” Little Ash eyed her outfit, troubled like a cloud snagged on a peak.

She wore the classic Hatsune Miku getup: black little boots like lacquer, over-the-knee black stockings like ink strokes, and a short skirt with green-edged black panels, cutting that holy strip of thigh where socks meet hem.

Up top was a gray-green sleeveless shirt, a deep green tie at the collar like a sprig of pine, and bell-shaped sleeves on her arms, her round little shoulders bare like peeled lychee.

Of course, Ye Weibai had dug this out of Little Ash’s private stash; the shut-in had plenty of figures in that vein, like glass soldiers on a shelf.

He didn’t pick Miku out of devotion—he picked it because the other costumes were too embarrassing, like fireflies you don’t invite indoors.

Swimsuits, magical girl frills—that was the mild end. There was a fishnet set, and something with tentacles—what even, Little Ash? Your taste is a whole drifting market.

When she bought them, she surely never thought she’d wear them herself, like paper cranes suddenly taking wing.

“Not green—what color do you like?” Ye Weibai’s voice was warm, a quilt in winter.

“Mm… white. Little Ash likes white. Like that one.” She pointed at a set on the table, finger like a reed tip.

Ye Weibai looked over and his face soured like vinegar spilled.

It was Hestia’s iconic blue-ribbon outfit from Is It Wrong to Try to Pick Up Girls in a Dungeon?, the skirt so short it could pass for a shirt, a ribbon lifting the chest like a bowstring.

Ye Weibai’s brow twitched, a moth tapping glass. “Not that one.”

“Eh, why?”

“You… don’t really fit the size.” His words were careful, stepping stones on a stream.

Little Ash puffed her cheeks, round as steamed buns. “Feels like Dad’s saying something very rude.”

“…”

“If white’s out, then that one!” She pointed at a red-and-white set—bold as a peony.

He eyed that outfit—open chest, open legs, open arms—everything exposed except what mustn’t be, just patches of fabric like scattered leaves. His face darkened, a storm brewing. “Mai Shiranui’s clothes aren’t for your age.”

“Eh?” Little Ash clutched her head, troubled like a crow calling at dusk. “But that’s all we’ve got. Little Ash can’t wear just one outfit.”

“Hm.” A thought lit in Ye Weibai’s mind, a lantern under eaves. “Little Ash.”

“Ah?”

“Let’s go shopping outside.”

“Eh?”

…

…