Archive of Our Own ^beta

The morning goes as any other morning. She wakes up ten minutes before the alarm goes off and she enjoys those minutes by allowing herself to be lazy and stare at the blank ceiling.

She allows some thoughts as well. It’s January 20th. She has a busy day ahead; her routine morning run, breakfast, get ready for a mission that requires a four hour trip across the country, oh, and ignoring the fact that it’s her birthday. The second one without her other half.

The alarm goes off before her mind wanders into unwanted territory.

She turns it off immediately, and she’s up less than a second later. She stretches her arms, cracks a few bones, changes, brushes her teeth, and steps out for a run. All monotonously. She aims to grab her earbuds as she always does, but something tells that she won’t need music to entertain herself today. It’s 6:15 in the morning, the sun is barely rising, not even visible yet, and the sky is lit in a pretty baby blue, purple-ish colour. The school is quiet on her way out—naturally, everyone is sleeping and she’d the only lunatic who jogs at six in the morning—, but she’s aware of a presence. One she knows quite well.

She’s warming up, stretching her legs, when she finally hears someone approach. She first hears the door sliding open then closed, dragged steps, and a yawn—instead of a greeting. She grins, suppressing a small chuckle.

“At what time did you go to sleep last night?” She asks, switching to stretch her other leg.

“Early enough,” Yuta answers behind her, his voice clearly rough from just waking up. He places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently as a greeting.

“How many times do I have to tell you? 2 a.m. isn’t early,” she says as she turns around, giving him a mock scolding glare. He just responds with an innocent—which is not innocent at all—smile.

“Oops,” he shrugs, slowly sliding the hand on her shoulder to the back of her neck and gently holding her. She knows what the silent gesture means by now, so she’s not taken aback when he leans in and kisses her—softly, brief and sweet. “Happy birthday,” he whispers, adding another peck to her lips before pulling away.

She takes a deep breath, retuning the soft smile, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. If he notices it, he doesn’t comment about it.

“Thank you,” she answers after a moment, a nonchalant edge to her voice. She takes a step back, going back to stretching. “You didn’t have to get up early, though.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, beginning to stretch his arms over his head. “You’re leaving in like two hours, I wanted to see you before you left.”

She rolls her eyes halfheartedly, affection behind the gesture. “I told you I’ll be back later today.”

“If you’re lucky,” he points out. “It’s like a four hour trip, and you’d have to finish the mission very quick to be back tonight.”

“Are you doubting me?” She quips, placing her hands on her hips.

“Never,” he grins. “But I still it’s unfair you have a mission so far away on your birthday. It should be a free day.”

“It’s just any other Monday, Yuta,” she sighs, taking a sip from her water bottle. “Now stop moping and get moving.”

She teasingly pokes him in the chest before he opens his mouth again, probably to insist it is an important day, and that they should do something to celebrate. He doesn't get to suggest his idea. She starts jogging, smiling to herself when he follows right after.

This is enough for her. A quiet morning, quality time, a happy birthday kiss. Enough celebration. Enough acknowledgement of this unavoidable day. After all, duty still calls.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” He asks two hours later. It’s still early, the halls still quiet as he walks her out.

“I don’t need the extra help,” she repeats for the third time in thirty minutes, voice bored.

She knows better than to snap at him, knows that he’s not really offering help, but rather company. She just doesn’t have the heart to tell him she prefers some alone time today of all days. That she needs isolation. She craves a distraction. Part of her wonders if he’d understand why; the other part is sure he definitely would—but overall, her mind agrees on one thing: she does not want to talk about it. Not to him, not to anyone.

And he knows better than to push his luck, so he resigns with a soft nod and a small, understanding smile. His hand falls on her shoulder, squeezing once, before cupping the back of her neck again, the same silent gesture that anticipates any sort of display of affection.

“Text me when you’re done. I’ll be waiting up,” he says, as soft as he only gets when he’s looking at her.

“Don’t wait up. You need to fix your sleep schedule,” she frowns, shaking her head slightly.

Yuta just chuckles, already used to her lack of casual sweetness. His thumb brushes a few circles on the sensitive skin of the side of her neck, grinning the second her frown softens at the subtle touch. He admires the way her eyes flutter and her eyelashes bat before he kisses her again. She kisses back, a natural reaction at this point.

“Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow,” he answers, dismissing her concern for his—pretty bad—sleeping habits.

“You’re impossible,” she huffs a soft laugh, taking a step back and adjusting her weapon case on her shoulder. His hand falls from her neck, signalling the moment is over. She still pecks his cheek, just to prove she could show some affection even through a stubborn frown. “Bye, clingy bean sprout.”

She huffs in feign offence at the nickname, but his smile gives him away. He nods softly, absently reaching for something in his backpack. Her frown returns when he pulls a juice box and a box of pastries from it.

“Is this supposed to be my birthday gift?” She blinks, pointing at the orange juice and cookies.

He snorts, gently pushing the stuff in her hands. “No. I just know you didn’t have breakfast. So, here you go.”

His uncalled kindness, his perceptive eyes, that dumb and gentle smile… She sometimes feels the urge to slap him, just to ease that tingly feeling that spreads across her chest and belly. She doesn’t, but only just barely. She’s still learning how to deal with the whole array of feelings he awakens within her.

“I prefer coffee,” she playfully sticks her tongue out at him, taking the juice and pastries from him.

“I know, but I’m not risking spilling hot coffee in my backpack… Again.”

The reminder maker her laugh. She had told him that’s what he gets for trying to surprise her. He never listened and kept coming up with small gestures to make her smile.

“Don’t worry, I’ll have your coffee and your actual birthday gift when you come back,” he adds.

“No birthday gifts,” she frowns.

“What?”

"No birthday gifts," she repeats, as if he hadn't heard the first time. "I don't want any."

He looks at her as if she's crazy—which, okay, fair, she probably is to some extent, but not for not wanting birthday gifts. Right?

"Well, too late," he just shrugs, looking rather smug. "You're not escaping it."

She huffs. But she's not about to start arguing with him over gifts. He could be really stubborn when he wanted to.

"Fine. Give it to me now. I don't want to be late for the mission," she crosses her arms, waiting for whatever he prepared for her to spawn suddenly on his hands.

He just laughs at her. Well, not at her, but definitely at her insistence.

"When you get back," he repeats as well. She just narrows her eyes at him.

"You know I don't like surprises."

"It's not a surprise. It's just a gift," he takes her by the shoulders, squeezing gently to ease the tension. She holds eye contact stubbornly until she remembers she doesn't have much time to waste.

"No surprises," she emphasises by pointing a finger at him, her sharp nail almost brushing his nose.

"So, should I cancel the party?" He smiles teasingly, which only makes her glare intensify. He drops the smile and nods diligently. "Fine, fine. No surprises."

"Hm. You better," she lowers her finger slowly, her menacing eyes softening.

She wants to kiss him goodbye, as corny as that makes her feel. But the sound of the car's horn is loud enough to startle her, and she hates being late. So, she just says goodbye and leaves. That's more like her.

That control over her emotions might as well be the last shred of self-control she has today.

The car ride was only necessary to get her to the train station. She'd argued that she'd do quicker by taking public transportation than getting to the location by car and risking traffic jam. Her superiors argued that, as a minor, she legally needed assistance of some sort nearby. She'd argued back that she was tuning eighteen today, and that was her last argument. Hence, she's blissfully all alone.

The trip is long and boring. The mission is short and uneventful.

It takes her less than an hour to get to the building, come up with a plan, find the curses, and exorcise them—with fifteen minutes to spare. Sure, it was only a few grade-two and one curses, way below her capacity, and a rookie could've taken the mission and succeed. But she'd still taken it. Her reasons to accept this task far away from where she lives and on a—supposedly—special day remain undisclosed, known only by her. And everyone knew better than to question her, which is good since the last thing she needs is people following her, being nosy, and snooping into her business.

She steps out of the abandoned-looking building humming a tune under her breath, cleaning her blade with a handkerchief. She takes her time before putting it back on its respecting sack and hanging it over her shoulder.

She's in no rush, really. She'd said she'd be back late, and it's only 2 p.m. If she wanted to go back, she could make it before the sun set. But no. She has other business to attend nearby.

Because there is a reason why she accepted this particular mission despite the inconveniences, and it's not just because duty calls. She could've petitioned another one, closer to home, more comfortable, but she didn't. The mission was only an excuse. A thinly-veiled one, but an excuse at last. And no one saw through it.

She's in Kyoto. Tokyo's sister school is only a few minutes away. Her old clan's state an hour or so from her location—not that there's something left to visit there. The point is, she's here on personal business. After all, it's not just her birthday today.

She looks up at the sky, it's sunny, a small comfort for a cold day. She thinks she should buy flowers, despite the probability of them dying quicker due to the winter weather. She used to like flowers, she remembers. She used to like a lot of things.

Maki sighs, silently planning the rest of her day in her head. She only bothers to grab her phone to check the best road to get to her next location. It's a forty-five minute walk. She could easily get a cab o catch the bus, but she opts to walk. Maybe because walking is good for your health. Maybe because she's delaying what's unavoidable. But she walks. And buys some flowers on the way.

She stands in front of the cemetery for an eternity—or that's what it feels like—before her legs listen to her brainwaves and obey the order to move. Ironically enough, the clouds have covered the sun the moment she arrived.

She walks aimlessly, reading the name on every gravestone. She doesn't know where the one she's looking for is. There's no family vault (she doesn't even know what happened to the bodies she'd left behind, and couldn't be bothered to ask for information) or any clear sign that points in the direction she needs. It takes her a while to find it, but she does eventually.

She remains unexpressive on the outside, despite the knot that tightens in the pit of her stomach, or the sudden heaviness on her chest, or the way her skin prickles almost painfully. But she reached her destination, this specific gravestone. She stares at is with a blank expression, but a heavy heart.

Mai Zen'in

2002 - 2018

That's all it reads. No beloved sister and daughter—which would be utter bullshit anyway, and Maki would hate to see it written, but there's no dedication at all, no phrase in memorial. It seems fitting, but it doesn't make it any less sad.

She hadn't had nothing to do with the arrangements of her burial, all she ever knew is that she's here, and all thanks to Momo who had the human decency to let her know. Maki had told her to take care of her body and she'd done as asked. Probably with some help, Utahime's, most likely. But she had done it, not Maki. She was Mai's best friend, not Maki. It hurt, but she couldn't take care of her—due to being busy and fighting for survival of the world or because thinking about Mai physically hurt at the moment, she didn't want to say.

She takes a look around before she says or does anything. There's not many people around. She can spot only a few people in this area, probably mourning relatives and loved ones as well, and far enough from her. The distance allows her to let out a shaky breath and finally lower herself to the ground, sitting with her legs crossed on the side of the gravestone. She silently lays the flowers in the middle of the stone, the array of vivid colours making a stark contrast against the ash-grey tomb. She then, aimlessly, draws her finger over her name, tracing every letter from M to N.

"Happy birthday, Mai," she whispers, so low, she doubts she even said it out loud. She takes another shaky breath and gently lays her head on the stone, as if she were resting her head on Mai's shoulder.

Should she speak? It feels pointless to, stupid even. Mai won't be listening, she knows that much. But there's something tugging at her throat, as if words themselves were constricting her respiratory tract. She swallows hard, trying to make it go away. She doesn't want to speak, but she feels the urge to. For the thousand—million—things she never told her, for all the conclusions she'd drawn in the fourteen months since her death.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit last year," she blurts out, still very quietly. Her voice comes out even, surprising even for herself. Mai's the only one who has brought tears to her eyes for the past year, but none seem to come out now. She wonders if that will backfire.

It had felt too soon. She'd toyed around with the idea of making the effort, but she just couldn't do it. Simply as that. Not because it reminded her of their family, or their life in the clan. She'd closed that chapter, turned that page, she'd cursed every single Zen'in and moved on, but she was still stuck on her little sister. How could she not be? She died—she was killed. Maki lived. And she wouldn't be who she is today if it wasn't for her sacrifice. She would never find the way to thank her. Fulfilling her final wish would have to suffice for eternity. She destroyed everything in her name. But the thought had been surprisingly overwhelming a year ago, perhaps for her avoidant nature. (Definitely because of it).

"But I brought you flowers," she adds, lazily dragging a hand across the many petals.

She wasn't sure which flowers to buy. Mai probably had favourites, but she didn't know which ones. So, she bought a bunch and mixed them all. There are white daisies, like the sort she used to put in her hair when they were children, and some roses, like the ones they used to hurt their fingers when they tried to pick one up and get pricked by the thorns instead. There are more, mostly for colour variety—red poppies, violets, forget-me-nots. All the sort of small flowers she knew Mai liked, and hopes that at least one was among her favourites.

Flowers are not enough to compensate for everything she's never said to her. She's past feeling guilt, at least on a daily basis, but there are times she longs to have her back. They hadn't been close for years before her death, but there are times Maki wishes she was still around. She had hoped, at some point, to free both of them from their families and have some sort of normal relationship with her. Twins were already special in their own quirky way, but they were always pit against each other. She'd longed to amend that broken aspect of their lives. In her most wishful thoughts, she longed to have her around. Even if she was miles away, even if they didn't text, even if they hated each other. But she would be around, and Maki then would remember what breathing feels like. But Mai is not around and hasn't been for two years now.

She misses her. Mai might be the only person Maki openly misses—as a bittersweet reminder of both her failure to grant her the life she deserved, but her success on fighting for freedom. She likes to think Mai would be proud of her. Maki is proud, not only of herself, but of Mai too. Her ultimate sacrifice was her way of freeing herself. It hurt then, it hurt for a long time, and it hurts today. But Mai had made her choice that day. Had Maki been conscious, she would've disagreed with it, but she did what she wanted, needed to do. Together, they accomplished their deepest desire one way or another—each other's freedom.

Maki carries the burden on her shoulders, but Mai lives in her. She wonders if that's why she gets emotionally overwhelmed from time to time. She was always the sensitive one, as much as she tried to hide it.

"I never hated you," she murmurs again after a long stretch of silence, her voice coming out somehow even more quietly. She nuzzles her face on the side of the grave. "And I know now that you didn't hate me either. In fact, I love you too, Mai." She closes her eyes as she whispers her last words and kisses the top of the gravestone.

She doesn't lift her head up. She doesn't even open her eyes. She sits there, next to her sister's tomb, her head resting atop of it, and eyes closed as she subtly and unintentionally drifts off.

When she wakes up, it's only because someone taps on her shoulder. She startles, naturally, and even makes a move to reach for her blade. Fortunately for the other person, she catches herself on time.

"Tch. Don't ever do that again," she scoffs, briefly glaring at the girl in front of her.

"Sorry," Momo says, clearing her throat and rather awkwardly. "We didn't expect to see you here."

We. She finally lifts her head from where it rested. Her neck aches from the stretch, and only there she realises two things: 1) Miwa is right behind her, holding more flowers in her hand, and 2) she fucking fell asleep on her sister's grave. It's later than she would like, it's getting dark, and she probably has unread messages about her whereabouts. (She, of course, guessed right. Five messages wishing her a happy birthday; three messages from Yuta wondering where she is.) Absolutely great.

"Yeah, well," Maki murmurs, pretending nonchalance as she stands up and cracks a few tense bones. How could she fall asleep just like that? She wasn't even that tired. "It's our birthday."

"Happy birthday, Maki," Miwa speaks up, interrupting whatever the other girl was about to say—probably some sort of snarky retort like You never visited before or something like that. She used to be pretty defensive of Mai, if she remembers correctly.

Maki answers a gruff, awkward, "Thank you," her eyes focused on the flowers in her hand. Peonies of different colours. She has a feeling those were Mai's favourites. Her friends surely knew her better than she ever did in mundane, every-day things. Things Maki should know because Mai shared with her—instead, she just knows by just looking at them, as if the knowledge had just been stored somewhere in her subconscious mind. She wonders if it's one of those "twin things" or just part of her life and death pact.

When the silence is on the verge of awkwardness, it's Miwa who breaks it again. This time, by leaning in to neatly place the flowers next to Maki's.

"Oh, daisies," she smiles, looking at Maki's hand-made bouquet. "She loved those. Always had one with her in her pocket or something."

A small wave of relief washes over her, even if she had been sure of her choice before. She just nods gently. There's nothing more to say. Just because she's friendly—by association—with them, doesn't mean they are her friends. They have nothing else in common besides Mai's grave. She should go. She has to go. She's hours away from home, it's getting darker by the minute, and she has to catch the train. Besides, if she stays, she just knows this will lead to unwanted, awkward exchange of memories about her sister. People are overtly sensitive for her liking in these situations, and although she can understand it, not even Satan himself could drag childhood anecdotes or bullshit like that out of her.

"Maki…" Momo tries. She seems like she wants to say something to her—happy birthday? Share something about Mai? Or worse, ask her something about Mai? Whatever it is, Maki doesn't want to hear it. It's just any other Monday, not the special day everyone think it is. She doesn't want to make this an special day—and particularly not with people she barely knows.

"I have to go," she says bluntly, cutting off any opportunities the other girl had to stablish a conversation with her. Miwa remains silent, nodding back gently and understanding the silent request to just let the moment end. Momo, on the other hand, frowns visibly.

Maki ignores it as she gathers her bag and shoulders it, softly saying and waving goodbye to the other girls. She begins to walk, but barely manages three steps before her name is being called out again.

"Maki! Wait. I—"

"I never thanked you," she interrupts, her voice louder and firmer now. Her usual tone. She doesn't even turn her head around, her words are enough to shut her up. "For taking care of her when I couldn't."

If she's referring to Mai's time in Kyoto Tech, or her lifeless body, she doesn't specify.

She doesn't wait for an answer before resuming her steps. But, as she walks away, she hears Momo's shaky voice one last time.

"I would've died for her," she hears right before the crying begins.

Yeah. Me too, Maki thinks.

Four hours and some delicious junk food as dinner later, she's back in Tokyo.

It's nearly midnight. 11:03 p.m., to be exact. The building is quiet except for the buzzing of the ceiling lights that illuminated the hallways. Everyone is probably either asleep or chilling in their respective dorms.

She should go straight to bed and sleep the day off. She feels exhausted despite not doing much, but emotions seem to take a greater toll on her than physical effort.

She knows she won't go to bed, though. She knows someone is waiting for her—she can feel his energy around, approaching. She knows that if she turned around, she'll spot him lurking in the shadows and following her. Most would think it's creepy. He probably thinks he's smooth with it. She finds it amusing and always plays along, pretending she doesn't feel or see him only because he likes to surprise her. She lets him think he actually manages to surprise her. (He knows she's pretending, but doesn't call her out.)

Today, she makes an exception.

"I thought I told you not to wait up," she says, loud enough for him to hear. She knew he was up—not only because he's unable to have a normal bedtime, but also because they were texting not an hour ago.

She hears a soft, amused sigh immediately after, and approaching steps. He stops right behind her and wraps his hands around her waist, pulling her closer and resting his chin on her shoulder.

"And I told I would anyway," he murmurs in her ear before kissing her cheek with an obnoxious muack sound.

They are alone, and that's probably why he even dared to, but she still elbows him in the ribs and pretends to clean her cheek.

"Idiot," she turns around to glare at him halfheartedly. "You didn't have to, I meant it. I'm exhausted."

"I know I didn't have to. I wanted to," he shrugs. He says it so casually and effortlessly, it's impossible for her to even argue with him. "Besides, I haven't given you your present yet. It's something small, I promise," he adds, just in case she complains.

"Fine," she sighs, defeated. She's not used to receiving gifts. It just feels odd. Awkward. "Where is it?"

He smiles big when she surrenders to him. He'll take any sort of victory against her—it doesn't happen often.

"Come, follow me."

He guides her to the common room where the different hallways that lead to the dorms meet. It's empty, but he made sure to turn on the lamp next to the sofa, which is the only light—orange, warm, and cosy—in the whole room. She then spots two coffee mugs on the coffee table, a plate with cupcakes between them, and a wrapped present on it. This time, she doesn't try to keep her lips in a straight line and allows herself to smile.

"I meant to cook dinner," he confesses when they sit down, close enough for their thighs to touch. He places a hand atop her thigh, rubbing his thumb softly over her jeans. "But you told me you had dinner already, and I did promise coffee, anyway."

"You didn't—" She cuts herself off. She should get rid off that phrase. She shakes her head softly, meeting his eyes with a fond expression. "Thank you. I appreciate it," she whispers.

She swallows subtly and gives him that look—her eyes shifting from his eyes, to his lip, and back to his eyes—before leaning in and kissing him. Just because she wants to. Just because she can. He always kisses back as if he had just been waiting for it to happen. No matter how short or long the kiss is, he always returns it with a fiery intensity, as if every kiss could be the last. This one in particular ends quickly—the coffee will go cold, she wants one of the cupcakes sitting there, and has to open her gift. So, she breaks it—or else, they'll get lost in it. (It wouldn't be the first time.)

She aims for the present he carefully wrapped for her. It's even tied around and has a pretty bow on top of it. She looks at him with narrowed, inquisitive eyes as she picks it up. It's hard and plain. She doesn't like unnecessarily prolonging things, so she just rips the wrapping —well, she tries to unwrap it neatly, but the paper tears easily.

It reveals a book.

At first, she doesn't recognise it. That changes quickly. This is his book, or at least she remembers seeing it in his room. She'd skimmed through it multiple times, pretending to read it whenever he did or said something that made her flustered. She only pretended to read it to—lame as it sounds—look cool. Or whatever. To be honest, she's not really a big reader and she can't recall a single plot line.

"I love it," she says, giving him her best smile, clutching the book to her chest.

He smirks back—and makes a big effort to swallow the laugh bubbling in his chest.

"I wrote a dedication too," he adds, squeezing her thigh gently.

She opens the first page, finding his messy handwriting on the first blank page.

I know you never really read a single word, but give it a shot. For real, this time. It's one of my favourites, and I think you might actually enjoy it.

She feels heat crawl up to her cheeks and she glares at him again, this time for real, her lips puffing out in a stubborn pout. He stops holding in his laugh at her reaction.

"I told you it was something small," he grins. Occasionally, he gets smug and she wants to wipe out that look off his face—usually with her lips, occasionally with her fist.

"Yeah, yeah how considerate of you," she huffs, rolling her eyes despite the soft smile that threatens to slip past her pout—despite the embarrassment, this is just proof that he sees her; truly sees her. "Thank you. I'll read it. I promise."

With that promise and the heat in her face fading, she gently lays the book back on the table. Both aim for the coffee, taking a sip. She hums in satisfaction at the taste. Mocha, just as she likes it. She pairs it up with one of the cupcakes, also humming in approval.

"These are good," she murmurs, her mouth half-full. "Where d'you buy them?"

He wipes some frosting from the corner of he mouth so casually she doesn't have the time to react properly before he answers.

"I took the day off and made them," he shrugs, a sheepish smile now on his lips. "I didn't find any candles for you to blow."

"I didn't know you could bake. I like them," she grins, taking another bite. "And I don't need candles. This is fine."

More than fine. She's never even blown the candles before—not that she'll mention that to him now—, she can live without doing it. But this? She doesn't mind this. A quiet moment, something sweet to soothe her sweet tooth, and him. He is fine. She doesn't mind his particular company on a day like today. She doesn't say as much, but she lays her head on his shoulder, and it feels as if she had said it out loud anyway.

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, tugging her closer to his side and rubbing her bicep up and down in a soothing motion.

"How was Kyoto?" He asks after a few minutes. She had been waiting for him to ask about her mission. He always did.

"It was fine," she shrugs. "Just a bunch of—"

She cuts herself off abruptly and turns her head to look at him. She doesn't bother to hide her somewhat shocked expression—her eyes a little wider, her mouth open. She just looks at him with bewilderment written all over her face. He just looks… patient.

"I never told you where I was going," she whispers. It's true, she had never mentioned where the mission was. She knew he'd connect the dots.

"I asked. You know I have access to missions information," he replies, his fingers never stopping the rubbing of her arm. "And I also know those were curses way below your level. You should've been back hours ago if it was a short and easy mission."

She swallows hard and force a shrug. "Someone had to do it."

"Yeah, someone closer to the city," he says. He sounds softer with each word he says. If he hasn't connected the dots yet, he's definitely working through it. "I just didn't think you ever wanted to return to Kyoto."

She bites the inside of her cheek and rests her head back on his shoulder, defeated. "Yeah, neither did I."

Once again, he is right about her. She never planned on returning anywhere too close to the Zen'in clan's headquarters. It's all either gone or dismantled, she holds no special place in her heart for it. Visiting was never in her plans, at least not any time soon. Until today.

It takes her a long moment to speak again.

"I visited Mai's grave," she mumbles. "It's her birthday too."

His arm around her shoulders tightens right away. He rests his head on top of hers, subtly pressing his lips on the crown of her head.

"That was my theory," he whispers. "I didn't want to ask directly."

"It's fine," she nods softly. She appreciates the discretion, saving his questions for the end of the day, after the worst is over. "I fell asleep on the gravestone," she half-snorts. "That's why I got back later than expected."

"You fell asleep?" He repeats, returning the soft snort.

"Yeah. She would've mocked me if she had seen me," she rolls her eyes lightly, imagining Mai laughing at her for falling asleep in the most inconvenient of places.

"I think she would've liked it," he counters her mocking tone with a softer one. "It's like sleeping next to her again. Like when you were kids."

Now, she knows he's saying that just because he's good at comforting and telling what others wanted to hear. Yuta had never properly met Mai, but his words were oddly accurate. The thought of falling asleep together like when they were children fills her with unexplainable nostalgia and satisfaction. The thought of sharing one last moment peace with her—as unconventional as it was—feels soothing, in some sort of weird way.

"Yeah. Maybe she would have," she sighs, a longing in her voice that will never fade, not as long as she keeps thinking of Mai.

Her body relaxes against him again. She doesn't look up at him again, but by the way she nuzzles closer, it all seems to be alright.

He stretches his arm and grabs his coffee mug once again, only the end remains, but that's enough.

"Happy birthday, Mai," he whispers, offering her the mug to clink both together.

She grabs hers too, clinking it with his. This time, she does look at him with a softer expression now. Not as shocked, but rather grateful.

"Happy birthday, Mai," she echoes, looking up at the ceiling, picturing her in her mind.

They finish their coffee in one last sip. And then, she just fully rests against him—her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, one arm around his torso. She cuddles to his side, and he welcome her in his arms contentedly.

They're not sure how long they remain there, but it feels like a long, comforting time in which they only enjoy each other's warmth and company. Both in silence, letting the soft brushes of their fingers, or the ghost of their breaths on skin speak for them.

Cuddling is nothing new. Sharing a bed is not either. And yet, this prolonged closeness somehow still manages to make his mind spiral into more dangerous territory. He can't help the way his arms tighten around her frame and relishes in the way she drapes one leg over his and buries her face directly on the crook of his neck, as if trying to merge with him in just one person. He resists the urge to pull her into his lap, but only just so.

(Only because that would, most likely, lead to very inappropriate actions happening in the common room sofa in which all their friends sit too.)

"We should go to bed," he murmurs eventually, his lips brushing the top of her head.

She hums in acknowledgement and sighs softly against the skin of his neck. Her warm breath brings a slight shiver down his spine and the arm wrapped around her tightens the slightest bit. He relaxes as soon as he notices the tension in his body—Jesus, it's just breath, her warmth breath on his sensitive skin, but his body is overreacting, that's all. He limits his movements to his thumb brushing firm circles on the curve of her waist.

"You gave me coffee. At midnight. I'm not going to sleep any time soon," she murmurs back, just not to disturb the quiet of the night. "But you're right, let's go."

Next thing he knows, he loses all her warmth when she stands up. He feels like pouting, but holds it back.

"Yeah," he blurts quickly, clearing his throat and following her moves. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go."

He keeps a hand on her lower back as they walk down the dark and quiet hallways. She mimics his move, placing one of her smaller hands on his back as they walk. His smile returns.

Her dorm room is closer, so they're standing in front of her door sooner than he'd like. He gently turns her to the side to look at her face to face. He doesn't say anything, instead he lets his hands speak for him as he takes her own hand in his, intertwining their fingers, while his other hand cups her cheek. Even in the dim light, he can see the way her face relaxes; feels it in the way she leans into his palm. His thumb brushes her lower lip just once before he leans in for a kiss, which is welcomed and reciprocated.

"You..." she breathes against his lips. It comes out a little shakier than she'd like to admit. "You made today bearable."

"I was barely with you," he murmurs, pecking her lips once more. She shakes her head softly.

"It was enough," she whispers. In her vocabulary, she's practically screaming from a rooftop she's in love with him.

He knows they're far from that explicit declaration of love, from her daring to voice it out loud. But he doesn't need it. He sees it in her eyes, in her words, in her actions. But him? Oh, he's so ready to let her know. There's a whole set of steps in a relationship, but he's willing to sacrifice them just to finally blurt out he loves her—although they've just been officially dating for a month or so. Unfortunately for him, she turns to the side and opens the door before he can formulate any words. He sighs quietly, swallowing down the slight disappointment.

"Goodnight, Maki," he whispers fondly, missing her proximity already despite her being a few inches apart.

She turns the doorknob, but she stops halfway through when he says goodnight. She slowly turns her head around, looking at him over her shoulder with a single brow raised.

"Aren't you coming in?"

Huh?

"Huh?" Of course he says it out loud. She takes him by surprise. Did she just—

"Don't make me say it twice," she gives him a pointed glare before fully making her way into her room. He follows her in immediately, as if she was pulling a leash around his neck.

He closes the door behind them, not making any noise in case she startles and regrets inviting him in. He stays in the middle of the room, watching her move around her own space. She always moves confidently and sure of herself, regardless of where she is. Her presence is imposing in the best of ways. But watching her move in her room, within these four walls that are just hers is entrancing.

She moves freely. Her shoulders are a bit more slumped now that she allows herself to relax her body, she hums a soft beat as she turns on the lamp on her nightstand, and delicately takes her shoes and jacket off. And he just stares, barely noticing the smile that spreads through his lips. Maki, is the only thing echoing in his mind. His beautiful Maki, comfortable around him, enough to trust him in her personal space and lowering her guard.

He's so deep in thought that once he's snaps out of it, he's staring at her bare back. His brain takes an abrupt turn and his thoughts drift. Once again, to dangerous territory.

He still stares. How could he not? She's offering a nice view of her back, her muscles flexing as she tosses her shirt somewhere across the room. Her scars are much more noticeable on her back, especially on her sides. Sometimes, when he grabs her by the waist and she happens to be wearing a thin t-shirt, he can feel the ridges of her scars, he can trace the texture through the fabric. But fully seeing them? His hands itch to touch and feel them for real, with nothing in between and properly, not just brushes of skin against skin. He wants to map them, see where they start and where they end until they're a mess of limbs and don't know where each one begin and end.

His throat feels suddenly dry. He shouldn't be thinking all of that. Not so soon. Slow. They should be taking this nice and slow because they've had pretty difficult years so far, and not only they're getting to know each other, but themselves as well. But none of that crosses his mind as he notices how her arms flex again, reaching behind her back and unhooking her bra. He watches it fall in slow motion and he really, really wishes she was facing his way. Her curves make shadows on the opposite wall, and his imagination sparks.

He stops breathing. Did she forget he's right there or...? If she forgot, he surely reminds him. He allowed his mind to reel too much, and reality comes crushing down. She's undressing in front of him as if they'd been married for years now. A strangled sort of noise comes out of him, and when he turns around to give her some semblance of privacy, he stumbles on a chair. He hisses a curse when he stubs his toe on one of the legs of the chair, and he hears a snort behind him.

"Don't laugh, that hurt," he hisses.

"Did I make you nervous?" He doesn't miss the amusement in her voice. "I'm just getting into my pyjamas."

"Could've given me a heads up," he says, his voice a little higher than usual—he's not sure if it's because of the pain on his toe or the image of her unhooking her bra in loop in his mind.

"Hm. Yeah. But you seemed too happy standing there," she grins. He just knows she's enjoying psychologically torturing him. "You can turn around now. Try not to kick the chair."

"Funny," he huffs as he turns around once again.

For a second, his mind fantasises about finding her naked under the covers. The most rational part of his mind scolds himself for that crude image and promises to never tell her that mental image unless he wants his throat slit open. When he turns around, the image is much more comforting and appropriate. She is indeed in pyjamas—an old skin-tight tank top and shorts that barely reach her mid-thigh. She must be doing it on purpose, he thinks.

She leans back against the headboard, her back resting on the pillows and looking at him across the room, her eyes holding that familiar challenge. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

He blinks. Oh. Right. He had assumed she meant for them to sleep in the same bed when she invited him in. He just forgot for a second there.

"Yuta, come here," she stifles a little chuckle, tapping the empty space on her bed next to her.

The imaginary leash around his neck tugs at her words and it only takes him three steps to sit on the bed next to her. His hand absently finds its way to her cheek again, enjoying the way the side of her face fits in his large palm.

"I don't have any sleepwear," he murmurs. "I can go to my room and get some. It'll be only five min—"

She doesn't let him finish. She tugs on the leash—or rather, she wraps her hand around his wrist to keep him there. This time, her thumb draws a soft circle on his skin, over his pulse point which hasn't stopped thumping wildly for a few minutes now.

"I can lend you some clothes. They'll be a bit tight, though," a grin tugs at the corner of her lip as she says it, alongside a poorly concealed chuckle. "Sleep in your t-shirt. I don't mind."

He swallows, harder than he intends, but he suddenly feels a knot in his throat. He nods, murmuring a soft "Okay."

He lowers his hand from her cheek and silently unbuttons his jacket. His sweatpants are a little uncomfortable to sleep under the covers, but he'll put up with it.

He finally lays next to her. She slides down on the bed and rests her head next to his in the single pillow she has. They look into each other's eyes. Hers sharp as always, but her eyelids are softer, almost half-lidded. His are big, always carrying that tired look, but with that characteristics admiration he holds just for her. She owns a single bed, like every bed in the school dorms, so they're pretty close together by default.

That closeness doesn't seem to be enough for either of them. The proximity seeking is not exactly subtle. They lay in silence, but they don't need words now.

He moves an astray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers tingling at the featherlight contact with her skin. His touch lingers on her face, as it always does, but his hand quickly drifts downwards. He makes sure his fingers brush his path down her jaw, the side of her neck, then her arm, and finally reaches his destination—her waist. He pulls her even closer. In turn, one of her legs begins rubbing against his shin. It's an innocent touch, but he can't help but gulp at the slow friction, his hand twitching on her waist.

She smirks when she notices the extra squeeze. And she should encourage sleeping. It's been a long day, she's a little tired. But teasing him sounds more appealing and much more fun.

Her leg moves further, her thigh settling between his legs, carefully stopping before it's too close—although, every touch of hers feels too close in this moment. He stays still, watching intently and breathing slowly as she approaches more and more. Her hand comes up next, going straight to the back of his neck, her fingers finding their place into his hair.

Whatever self-constraint he was holding onto vanishes in a heartbeat. Her fingers tangle in his hair, her sharp nails scratch his scalp gently yet assertively, and he closes his eyes and opens his mouth to allow a shaky sound out—a mix between a gasp and a moan. His hand on her waist moves to the small of her back, pulls her even closer, and his legs intertwine with hers, effectively bringing their bodies flushed together. He even hears the way she exhales, also a mix between a sigh and a chuckle. But he can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed, not when her nails drag down his nape and back up his hair. He feels like a puppy being pet.

Only when she stops playing with his hair and settles her hand solely on the back of his neck, he opens his eyes again. He's met with her cheeky smile, but with a hazy look in her eyes.

"You like that?" She whispers, her nails gently dragging on his neck once.

He gasps softly, a half choked sound he tries—but fails—to hold back. His hand, now on her lower back, brushes the small fraction of skin between the edge of her top and the waistband of her shorts. That small contact with her warm skin has his hold tightening and his hips buckling the tiniest bit. Her grin widens, while sparks fly all over his body. It's such a small thing, but it has his mind reeling and drifting.

"Maki..." His voice comes out rougher than normal. He doesn't care, but, oh, she relishes in it. "I'm in bed with you. I like everything and anything you do to me."

"Anything, huh?" He can hear the sly undertone of her voice, but all he can do is nod eagerly.

"Anything."

Oh. That's interesting.

"Close your eyes," she murmurs. As expected, he does as she says.

She really could say anything, and he would do it. Interesting fact. She could toy with that power for a little longer and both would enjoy it, she's certain. But she can feel the tension in his body, slowly seeping into hers too. She'd have to enjoy that benefit another day. Right now? She closes her eyes too and leans forward.

Her lips don't find his first. She goes for his jaw, and she feels his breath hitch in her ear. She smiles softly and immediately places another kiss on his jaw, a little lower this time. She spreads more kisses down the sharp edge of his jaw and then down the side of his neck. Her lips barely graze him, but they still feel like fire on his already overheated skin.

By the time she reaches his lips, she can feel him panting. He's controlling his breath, coming out in soft puffs of air against her own lips, but she can feel the way his chest rises and falls quickly, pressing against her breasts with every sharp inhale. She's sure that if she were to inch her thigh just a higher, she'd press against something much more thrilling. But, he's keeping a small but respectful distance between their hips. She respects it, but mostly because she doesn't want to overwhelm him to the point of imploding—not so soon, at least.

He's such the sight. And it's all because of her. She decides he's earned a stop to his little torture, and so she grips his hair a little more firmly and finally kisses him, properly this time.

The kiss is not as soft and gentle as the rest of the kisses they shared throughout the day. No. He meets her lips with a sound of relief, and a hunger he could no longer contain. She's still getting used to it because, God, he doesn't hold back. He fully circles her waist with his whole arm, a strong hold that she could get out of only if she wanted to—but by the strangled sound she makes against his lips, that doesn't seem to be the case. His free hand mimics hers and makes its way to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her soft locks and keeping her head in place as they share, probably, the hottest kiss they have yet.

His tongue traces the seam of her lips and she welcomes him in with a gasp which is quickly drowned when he intensifies the kiss. Their tongues meet and their bodies burn. She wants to bite him in retaliation for making her chest feel like it's about to burst, so she does. She nips his lower lip and tugs, earning a soft grunt from him and an even tighter hold of her waist—and, of course, another searing kiss.

This time, their hands wander, albeit with limited mobility due to the position they're in, but she does manage to sneak one hand underneath his shirt to feel the muscles of his back. For his part, his hand moves to her hip, then down to the back of her thigh, hitching it up. He makes sure to keep a gentle grip of her thigh, but the soft and plush skin makes it difficult. He itches to move his hand a little upwards. It's so tempting, but he knows that he won't be able to keep a gentle grip on her ass. So, he just keeps digging his fingernails on the soft skin of her thigh, keeping his hand dangerously close to where heat is slowly growing in her.

(She curses him in her mind for not doing it).

Maki's not sure how long it is until their bodies overheat and can't take any more. They either need more, or to stop before they do something too irresponsible. That much is clear.

She breaks apart first, practically gasping for air. He takes the opportunity to drift his lips toward her neck. She allows it, breathing through the wet and scorching kisses he leaves in his short path down her neck, and back up to her face.

They pant gently on each other's faces. She feels the circles his thumb traces on her thigh and mimics his soft strokes on his lower back.

Unfortunately, it's her who breaks the moment in a moment of rationality. "We should get some sleep."

As if spellbound, the underlying meaning of her words have an immediate effect on him and his grip on her loosens. He makes a little disappointed sound in the back of his throat, but nods dutifully and even pecks her lips one last time.

"Yeah, we should," he agrees, his voice still a little rough, but with that characteristic softness to it despite feeling his body tense as a bowstring.

Before awkwardness could settle in—before she regrets the rational decision—, she turns over in her bed with a shaky sigh, giving him her back.

Well, that was fun. It could be more fun. If only you allowed it. She curses her mind silently as she stretches her arm and turns off the lamp on nightstand. The room gets dark, only illuminated by the faint streetlight seeping through the open curtains, which signals time to sleep for once and for all. However, the tension doesn't seem to fade with the lamplight. If anything, it's even more suffocating. But she ignores it. For her sake, she ignores it.

They shift a little and she grabs the blankets beneath them, covering themselves with it. She doesn't turn back around to face him, and when he doesn't move any closer, she frowns. Isn't she being obvious? She refuses to voice out loud she wants to cuddle, so she just reaches behind her and fumbles around until she finds his wrist and tugs on it, making him wrap his arm around her again.

"Maki, wait—" She doesn't catch the panicked edge to his voice quick enough, can't see the way his eyes go wide as she tugs him closer. And he himself is too weak to fight the temptation of spooning her; his brain too slow and foggy to find a quick way out of his impending embarrassment.

She tugs him closer to sleep in a spooning position and, in turn, she presses back against him. Her whole backside pressing against his front. After a heavy make out.

Oh. Right.

She's far from naive, obviously. But apparently, he's not as good as her at ignoring arousal and willing it to go away—not that she can will it to go away, but she gaslights herself into thinking she can. She's supposed to have perfect control of her body, isn't she?

She's not sure of what happens first—if she feels his choked gasp against her neck, or the poking in her lower back, dangerously close to her ass. Time stills for a moment. Or maybe it's just her who freezes because her willpower to ignore the tingles in her belly is diminishing little by little.

"Sorry..." He whispers slowly, his voice strained. "It, uh, it'll go away in a minute."

She tries not to, she really does, but she laughs. To his utmost horror, she giggles—a sound she rarely produces. He's confused if that's good or bad, but he knows mocking him isn't above her.

"All it took was just a few kisses, hm?" He can feel that smug smirk of hers even in the dark and while she's facing away from him.

He scoffs at the question, a soft chuckle following suit. "That was not just a few kisses," he argues—because how dare she look so calm and collected while he's all twitchy and unnerved because of her. He's sure she really enjoys torturing him.

The slight desperation in his voice only makes her giggle again. He loves that sound, he wants to make her giggle over and over again, but he can't quite focus on that now. All his attention is on not dying out of sheer embarrassment.

"Just... I need a minute and—" He mumbles, sighing against the back of her neck and shifting as much as he can in the limited space of the bed, trying to create enough distance between them so that his hips are not touching her.

Except, he's unsuccessful. Because Maki tugs on his arm again and not only pulls him closer, but also presses herself back against him.

"Maki," another choked sound, this time similar to a grunt, comes out of him. He has to inhale and exhale deeply before he trust himself to speak again. "Don't... Don't do that. Please."

She wonders if she's being too mean, but this is the most fun she's had all day. She hums absently and shifts in her place again, pretending she's just getting comfortable.

"Do what?" She murmurs, poorly holding back yet another devilish chuckle.

"Maki," he nearly pleads. And, oh, if that tone doesn't do wonders to her.

"Yuta," she whispers back, dragging his name in a soft sing-song voice. Her nails drag gently up and down his forearm, which she has trapped around her waist in a tight grip and he wonders how she can still breathe and move with his strong hold around her.

Maybe she's not as good as she thought she was at keeping her hands to herself and her willpower on a pedestal. Or, maybe, she's tired of restricting herself from her deepest feelings, of not following her gut when she most desires to. Tired of fearing the what-ifs and possible scenarios. She wants it. She can have it. What's stopping her besides of herself?

She tests the waters by grinding against him just once. The bold move sends shivers down her spine, the skin on her lower back prickling, but the way he straight-up whines on her neck makes her dizzy. Her body is overheating and she can think of one quick, possible solution.

"Maki, please. I—"

She swallows hard. And before he could finish his sentence—or maybe he finished it, but the blood rushing through her ears is louder than his voice.

"It's okay," she whispers. "I don't mind. I... I want to."

His breath hitches.

"What do you want?" He asks. Slowly. Carefully. He doesn’t want to show excitement. Or nervousness. Or any of the array of feelings coursing through his body.

"I don't know." It comes out as a mix between a murmur and a grumble—frustration? Nerves? Anticipation? She genuinely doesn't know. But she wants, no, needs something. Or else she won't sleep, her mind will go into a spiral, wondering what could've been and belittling herself for not allowing them this intimate moment of getting to know more of each other. "Just... anything."

He swallows hard. And, God bless him, he always understands what she means, as if he could see right through her, as if he developed a new technique that allowed him to read her mind.

"Okay," he whispers, nodding against the back of her neck. His voice comes out a little shaky, and so are his hands, but that doesn't diminish his confidence on what he has to do.

With measured and slow movements, his hand comes up and brushes her hair to the side, revealing the scarred skin of her neck and shoulder. The thin strap of her tank top falls a bit down her arm, and although he can't see much, he knows that's where he wants to go first. It's a safe beginning, he thinks, as he shifts a bit and his breath is now on the crook of her neck. He feels her skin prickle and takes it as his cue. His hand returns to her waist to hold her, and he lowers his face just enough for his lips to brush her scorching skin. When she feels her breathe out shakily, he presses a firm kiss where he just teased. Then another. And another. He presses a few on her shoulder, just enough to make her breath quicken, before he travels up her neck.

That's where the soft spots are, he knows by now. He feels the way her skin changed from textured and scarred to soft and sensitive with his lips. He kisses a path down the delicate curve of her neck, each kiss lingering and mouthing where it touches, until he reaches the shell of her ear. He can't help but let out a deep sound against it.

"Okay?" He doesn't trust much words coming out of him in this state, and he knows she sometimes struggles with open communication, but he does add soft and and comforting circles on her waist to emphasise his point.

She nods instantly. "Okay," she confirms a second later.

"Again?" He asks tentatively.

"Again," she breathes out, closing her eyes. She's sure he could see the redness of her face even in the dim light.

He doesn't need more convincing. All he needs is her confirmation before his mouth meets her neck again, with more purpose this time around. His kisses grow louder; wetter. His tongue peeks from between his lips, licking gently and tasting the slight saltiness of her skin, leaving a damp spot behind that he'll definitely return to only to hear her breath falter over and over again. Minutes go by (or maybe seconds? He has no notion of time, not anymore; days could go by and he wouldn't notice because his attention is solely on Maki) until he dares to graze her skin with his teeth, successfully coaxing a proper moan out of her—instead of the shuddered breaths and long sighs. However, when he's about to do it again, her hand finds his where it's resting  around hey mid-section and squeezes. Hard.

He takes it as a petition to stop. And he does unhesitatingly. He lifts his head, opening his eyes and getting a small glimpse of her side profile from behind. It's dark, yeah, but he can tell her eyes are shut and she's biting her lip. She looks a goddess in his eyes, but he also knows she's thinking—overthinking, maybe?—about something. He wants to tell her to trust him and speak her mind to him, that he won't judge, but before he can carefully pick the words in his foggy mind and articulate them, she seems to make up her mind.

Her eyes open and she tilts her head to meet his gaze. The look they share is intense. He wants to ask if she's okay, but gets lost in that special glint her eyes hold, as if the moonlight reflected on her iris. In his distraction, he barely notices the way she squeezes his hand again, just enough to weakly return the squeeze as if saying I'm still here with you, for you. His attention, however, is suddenly redirected to the current situation when she doesn't stop, as he thought she would. No. His heart skips a beat and then starts hammering when she starts guiding his hand underneath her top. Silently, a little bewildered, he lets her take his hand until it's resting flatly on the middle of her stomach. Skin to skin. His hand is so large that his palm rests above her belly button, and his fingers can feel the outline of her ribs. This mere, half innocent touch, has all sort of feelings overwhelming his emotional system and he silently thanks the universe for his self-control. It feels like he's touching a twinkling star in the night sky with his bare hands.

He stays very still, just enjoying the warmth and softness of her on his hand. He'll be damned if he does or says something that ruins the moment. Because he's well aware that if his hand twitches, or if he suddenly jerks, or if he even breathes too loud, his fingers will brush the underside of her breasts. Part of him can't stop thinking about that possibility, but he will not move without permission.

She keeps his hand there for a moment, and he doesn’t hesitate to kiss her cheek tenderly, just feeling the slow and comforting rise and fall of her diaphragm with his hand as she breathes in and out. The corner of her lips tugs into a soft, somewhat shy—odd, in her—smile. He makes nothing of it. This is new for both of them. He smiles back, soft, gently, and utterly content. This is more than enough for him. He can completely disregard his own need—still very much present and much tighter, but not as important as having her in his arms—for moments like this. He'd trade the world for her trust, comfort, and happiness. That's all what matters now, and he feels privileged to only be here.

His smile goes as quickly as it comes, though.

She lifts her head from the pillow in a rather awkward and uncomfortable position, but it's only for a moment to return a kiss on his cheek. He notices the shift on her smile, a bit more smug. Up until that point, he's still smiling and he even tires to mimic her smugness. But she's successful on wiping any proper reactions or logical thoughts when she tugs on his hand again. Upwards. Towards her chest. Her breasts.

He almost squeaks when his fingers brush the underside of one them. (He doesn't squeak. He swears he doesn't. But he still makes a high-pitched, embarrassing sound that has her smirking.) He feels the plump skin with his fingertips and his breath quickens again. She keeps moving his hand until his whole palm is cupping one of her breasts. Once again, he stays very still.

Now, he's felt them before—touches over clothes, when he hugs her a little too hard—and he'd be lying he said he hadn't stare before. In his defence, it's nearly impossible not to. But he's never felt them up this directly.

"Maki..." She's lost count of how many times he's said her name in that groggy and breathless voice, but she wants to keep hearing it. "Is... Is this okay?"

I'm guiding you, you fool. Of course it's okay. She says in her mind, a little desperate for all the build-up.

"It is," she breathes out, her outer voice weaker than in her head, just to demonstrate how affected she actually is.

She grants him a few seconds of mercy to get used to the weight of her breast in his hand before letting go of it, giving him free will—to some extent—to touch her finally. He seems to hesitate for a little, but he's quick to snap of whatever head space he was in and seems to remember he has control of his hands too. He flexes his fingers a little, just to squeeze slowly and gently. Her skin there feels hot and fits perfectly in his hand. He feels the hard bud of her nipple underneath his touch and slowly rolls it with two fingers, then tugs on it. She can't help but let out a shaky and quiet moan. He grunts in response, burying his face on the crook of her neck again.

His lips find her skin again, he slowly gets more comfortable with feeling her chest up, and she fully relaxes against him. Feeling a little generous, she grinds back against his crotch. That only makes him groan and twitch behind her and, in turn, she feels a tingle between her legs so strong that she has to clench her thighs together. That doesn't go amiss from him. But he's patient. Very patient. Too patient for her liking.

She is not. She squirms in her place and arches her back, trying to get even closer, to somehow feel more of him. He grunts her name as a sort of warning, the hand cupping her breast moving to the other one momentarily. He explores her chest with one hand, while the other traces down her abdomen, feeling up the well-defined muscles. He traces the hard lines between her abdominals, starting at the top, underneath her ribs, all the way down to the V-line that leads dangerously low. He wants to kiss her all over, feel every ridge and scar with his lips, but his hands are more than sufficient right now.

His fingertips tease the waistband of her shorts, only to move up her abdomen again and repeat the teasing motion. He feels her skin prickle under his touch, and he repeats every brush of his fingers that causes that reaction, that makes her clench her thighs together and gasp a muffled version of his name.

Her hand comes up again. She's so fast—or he's too distracted—that he only notices her move when she grips his hand again, stilling it just on her lower abdomen. He stops moving again, his lips pausing behind her ear again. He waits a few seconds before speaking.

"...Should we stop?" He whispers.

"No," she breathes out shakily.

He expects her to let go of his hand and let him follow his instincts. (She trusts him deeply, but not that much). Instead, she tightens her hold on his hand and guides it further down. His fingers brush the waistband of her shorts one last time before breaching that barrier. He feels the thin fabric of her underwear underneath and he wonders if he'll even survive this, but remains focused as she slowly guides him lower and lower. She stops when they reach a particular spot—too warm and damp, it makes him dizzy—and she adds pressure on his fingers, signalling him where to touch. He gulps audibly, but obeys her silent command and, with two fingers, he presses a tight circle where she ordered to.

She curses, her voice a breathy mix between a hiss and a gasp. He can feel his body buzzing in excitement, but he focuses only in her. He repeats the circling motion slowly, gauging a similar reaction out of her. He keeps rubbing, testing different pressures and motions and taking mental notes of which makes her gasp the most. Eventually, she lets go of his hand when he gets the hang of it—which is quickly enough.

He has to breathe deeply through it and readjust their position. He's sure spooning isn't the most comfortable position to do this, but he's not about to start complaining now. He keeps one hand between her legs, his other arm sneaking around her waist and going back to her chest. By the way she seems to melt against him, he must be doing something right. That only encourages him. He combines his moves, fondling her breast and pinching the hard bud with one hand, and drawing the same tight circles with the others once he finds a pressure she seems to enjoy. He prolong what he's doing, taking his sweet time until the damp spot on her underwear is wet enough that he feels it on his fingers and she can barely contain the sounds coming from her throat. And then, he retreats his hand back to her lower abdomen, fingertips just underneath the waistband again.

"What the—" She opens her eyes, forced to return to reality abruptly, turning her head to the side to look at him through her clouded gaze. She's breathing erratically, and he's looking at her with a cocky grin. "If you stop right now, I swear—"

He laughs, soft and warm, and kisses her to interrupt her. "I'm not stopping, just taking my time," he murmurs.

"You're teasing," she grumbles.

"That too." Once again, he's all smug, that confidence he gains when he knows he's doing something right.

"Well, stop it," her voice grows more impatient, her body more restless.

"Or what, huh?" He murmurs, moving his hand once again only to trace the thin elastic of her panties.

Bastard! He knows what he's doing. She's not sure if what she's feeling is irritation or pure arousal; if he should scoff at his cockiness or urge him to keep doing what he was doing a minute ago.

"Or—"

He seems to have been waiting for her to open her mouth to move again. As soon as she does, he silences her with another kiss, his tongue immediately invading her, and it only takes him a single move of his hand to have her gasping against his mouth. He breaches that last barrier, feeling a small patch of coarse hair and then—heaven. Or the closest he's ever been to it. Or maybe he's had a heart attack. Whatever is happening, he's fine with it.

She's warm, and soft, and so wet. The glide of his fingers over her folds is smooth and easy, the space to move a little limited, but that's not an obstacle for him. He moves gently but with purpose, searching for the place that makes her mewl the most. He knows he rubs the right place when she bites on his lower lip and digs her nails painfully on his forearm. He adds more pressure, rubs around her bud and then directly on it, and she moans his name.

He wants to hear it again and again. And he intends to.

His fingers slide even lower, still cautiously, but quickly earning a nod from her. He doesn't even care if his hand is starting to cramp, or if his arm below her is suffering from loss of blood circulation. He has one goal set in his mind—satisfying her.

She won't stop him. In fact, her impatience is acting up again as he explores further down. He likes to take his time, but she feels like bomb about to go off.

"A little lower," she murmurs between ragged breaths. He listens, placing an open-mouthed kiss on her shoulder. Two of his fingers glide down and he knows he reaches what she means when he almost slips into her.

"Fuck. You're so wet," he whispers roughly, no longer able to hide how affected he is—not that he was hiding it in the first place with the way his hips unwillingly buck against her from behind. He teases her entrance with one finger, his thumb replacing the one he had on her clit. "Can I…?"

"Yes," she practically hisses. Once again, patience is a virtue she lacks. Thankfully, he's obedient.

He tries just one, circling around to gather her slick first. He's only able to go two knuckles in from his position, but that will suffice for now. If she was warm on the outside, she's a furnace on the inside. They moan at the same time, and he can't bring himself to take his time now. He's a man on a mission.

One finger becomes two soon, sliding in and out in a gentle rhythm, curling once they're back inside, and his thumb still rubbing circles in that electric place. It doesn't take long from there. She asks him not to stop. Or so she thinks. She's closed her eyes and gave the rational side of her brain a break long ago. He still doesn't stop, just keeping the rhythm she asked him to.

The sounds coming out of her are obscene and lewd, but neither seem to care. Especially not her as the warmth spreads more and more, from her belly to her chest, down her legs to her toes, her breath hitching and throat straining as she tries to retain a high-pitched moan. His wrist is definitely straining, but the reward is greater than the pain. She tightens impossibly around his digits, her thighs clenching together so hard his hand is trapped, and she shudders as she buries her face in the pillow. He holds her as she comes crashing down, his grip on her loosening slightly through it as clarity comes back to her.

A minute or so later, she blinks her eyes open. She's still breathing heavily, but her body feels way more relaxed than it's felt in weeks, floaty even. She turns slowly to look at him, both their gazes half-lidded, faces flushed, but still wearing the same intensity in their eyes.

He slowly retreats his hand from between her legs, his fingers half covered in her slick. He short-circuits a little when he notices he has nothing to wipe his hand in. So, he does the next logical thing his lust-filled brain comes up with. He takes them to his mouth, sucking them clean—humming around them as he tastes her.

Maki just opens her eyes wide, lets her mouth hang open too. As if the temperature of the room wasn't hot enough already even in the middle of winter. No words come out of her mouth, she just holds eye contact as he shamelessly tastes her. He lets go of his fingers with a wet pop and has the nerve to smile at her sheepishly when he lowers her hand to her waist again.

God, he's insane. She loves that.

She turns around in his arms, facing him again, and doesn't hesitate to grab the front of his shirt and pull him into another scorching kiss. She tastes herself on his tongue, and that just has her groaning into his mouth. He's had her fun. It's only fair she has hers.

Her legs still feel a bit shaky, but that doesn't diminish their strength. She drapes one leg over his and, with the help of her hands on his chest, pushes him on his back, quickly straddling him. He groans back mid-kiss the moment she sits right atop him, his hands flying to grip her hips hard. She breaks the kiss—against her better judgement—and straightens her back to look down at him.

It's her turn to look smug, especially as her hands reach for the bottom of his t-shirt. Her hands sneak underneath, feeling the hard muscle he keeps well hidden, but that she knows is there. She always get a glimpse—when he stretches his arms and his hoodie rides up, or when they're sparring and she manages to throw him to the ground, making his shirt lift and reveal a silver of his skin, just the ridges of the V-line. But she wants more than a glimpse.

"Off," she murmurs, lifting the fabric more and more.

He obliges without protesting, of course he does. His shirt is discarded somewhere across the room, neither seems to care. He's busy focusing on the pressure of her hips on his crotch. She's busy raking her eyes through his torso. She knew he was strong, but looking at the living proof of his training is different. She takes her delicate fingers to his collarbone, tracing the prominent bone before guiding her touch down.

She feels him up, the same way he did. Feels his pecs, then down his ribs, and his toned abdomen. She touches every scar she finds on her way, starting on the larger, diagonal one on his chest. She still thinks of it with some resentment, the same as with the one across his forehead. She had known back then what her reaction meant, why she was so upset with him—she was too stubborn to admit it even to herself, but that funny feeling was always there when it came to him. He must've noticed the change in her expression because he calls her name.

"Maki…"

Her eyes meet his, her fingers halting the soft brushing over the scar. Her face softens again at the sight of him, looking up at her with hooded eyes and a red face—it doesn't matter that it's mostly dark, she just knows he's red in the face.

"You're so reckless, you know?" She huffs, shaking her head as she leans down and places a kiss on top of that scar. She feels the way his heart thumps wildly against his ribcage. "Did I ever tell you that if you pull something like that"—her eyes go between the scar on his chest and the one on his forehead—"again, I'll kill you?"

He sighs shakily when she feels her lips on his chest and makes his best effort to nod. "Just a few hundred times," he murmurs.

"I mean it," she glares at him.

The glare is empty, though—even if she does mean her words. She's more focused on tracing his other scars than on threatening him—the little ones he must've gotten as a child playing around, or in less dangerous missions; she's sure she must've caused at least one of them in one of their sparring sessions. She traces the faint lines on his wrists, just as part of her exploration, but they're part of him and no less important. Part of her wonders if he'll ever open up about that, but she doesn't let her mind focus on that for too long.

"I know, don't worry," he smiles faintly.

"Good," she smiles back.

When their eyes meet, she doesn't hesitate to kiss him again. It's needy, as if no matter how hard they tried, they can't resist the urge to apply more and more pressure into each other's mouths. He kisses like a man starved, as if he'd been denied of her for a long time although she's right on top of him, sitting on his lap, beginning to move again— Oh.

She rolls her hips experimentally, but she seems to get it right in the first try. Just to prove her theory, she repeats the movement, effectively feeling the hard bulge she's sitting on twitch. He breaks the kiss. He has to, to catch some air and gasp out her name. She loves hearing her name come out of him like that—breathless, choked—, so she rolls her hips over and over. Her breath picks up again and she has to support her weight by placing both her hand on his chest as she moves, but it gives her the perfect view of Yuta struggling to keep his cool when the last thing she wants now is for him to look cool. No. She wants him to unravel, just as she did just a few minutes ago.

She can feel his hardness press right between her legs, where she's still sensitive, and the feeling his thrilling. At some point, she closes her eyes and starts moving more naturally, getting used to it. She focuses only in rolling her hips, ignoring the growing ache in her thighs, and listen attentively to the sound he unsuccessfully tries to swallow. She's into it. So into it, she barely notices the way he's gripping her hips so hard he'll sure leave the indents of his fingers even through her shorts.

"Maki. S- stop," his muffled words do make her stop, though. Slowly, but she surely stops and open her eyes with a mix between a confused and a concerned look.

He has his eyes closed tightly, breathing in and out in deep intakes of breath. The concern leaves her, replaced by smugness.

"Yuta…" she murmurs, tracing his jaw with one finger. "Open your eyes."

He shakes his head. She just chuckles.

"Are you going shy on me? Now?" She cups his cheek now, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. "It's a bit late for that."

"It's not that," he murmurs, forcing himself to calm down. (It was a bit that, though).

"Then what is it?" She knows the answer. She just wants him to say it.

The fake innocent question does make him open his eyes, only to return one of her many glares—but way less threatening.

"If you keep moving like that I'm gonna—" He huffs, feeling the room temperature suddenly ten times hotter. "You know. In my pants."

She hums, pretending to think for a moment before she grins, way more cocky now that they're so close to the finishing line.

"Well, we can fix that," she whispers.

His eyes widen just as she begins to move again. Not her hips, but rather her hands. He supports his weight on his forearms as he sits up a little to watch if she's going to what he thinks she's going to do. Indeed, her hands wander down his chest and abdomen again, reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Maki…" His voices comes out strangled. She meets his eyes and raises her eyebrows, a silent question to proceed. He swallows harder than ever before, and simply surrenders to his desires. He nods firmly, closing his eyes again when her fingers sneak underneath the waistband of both the sweatpants and his underwear.

She doesn't expose all of him—he's not sure if it's mercy or torture. She just takes her long and delicate fingers to the edge of his pants and tugs only a few inches down, just enough to free the aching tip of his cock. She can't see that well in the dark, so she feels it up with her fingers. It's hot, soft, probably swollen—she wonders if it's flushed, but it probably is, just like the rest of him—and definitely sensitive by the deep, guttural sound that escapes him. She bites her lip and circles the slit with her fingers, feeling the stickiness around. Her mouth feels dry, her face and chest hot, and she can't help but rolls her hips again. It's both the right and wrong thing to do.

"Maki," his voice sound whiny at this point, on the verge of breaking, or begging. Or both. "I'm gonna—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. Determined, she keeps rolling her hips in tight, little circles, and rubs his tip with her thumb. With a deep grumble, he folds forward and lets his head fall on her cleavage, where her top is sensually slipping down and offering a generous sight. He buries his face in her flesh, kissing the valley of her breasts and leaving a bite or two behind that have her tugging on his hair.

His hands move from her hips to her ass, squeezing in a silent plead for her to keep moving. She doesn't move her hips. Instead, her fingers wrap around his tip and it only takes two squeezes to have him whining against her chest. That's enough for his undoing. He releases on his abdomen, twitching under her and grunting through it with eyes tightly shut.

He has to grip her wrist and physically stop her from further touching him or he'll start crying. When she releases him, he slumps back on the mattress, chest rising and falling in a quick tandem. She smiles faintly, but patiently sits down—on his thighs, this time—and waits for him to come back to life.

When he does open his eyes, she's already looking at him. They're both still breathing erratically, their bodies hotter than they should be in the middle of January, but none of that matters now. Not when he's looking at her as if she was the sun itself.

"You okay there?" She teases, her clean hand brushing the hair that sticked to his forehead.

He nods absently, just grimacing as he looks down at his stomach. She notices it and makes a face too. Now that the haze is drifting from their mind, that seems a lot more gross than it was a moment ago. Luckily, she has tissues in her drawer.

"It's the best I can offer," she murmurs, climbing off him and settling on her side of the bed again.

"It's fine," he takes them from her, hands still trembling a little as he processed what just happened.

He makes a quick work of cleaning himself as much as he can. He should probably take a shower, but it's nearly 2 a.m. and he's feeling groggy already. By the way Maki's laying down, staring at the ceiling and blinking slowly, she's feeling the same way. He smiles faintly at the sight of her, readjusts his pants, and stands up to thrown the tissues in the bin. He spots his t-shirt on the floor and aims to pick it up. Maki catches his movement from the corner of her eyes and frowns.

"Don't," she murmurs, turning on her side. "I like it better off," she grins faintly, sleep evident on her face.

His eyes widen a little, feeling a little shy at the declaration, but he guesses they're leaving shyness behind after what just happened. He returns the smile, a tired one, and lets the garment fall back to the floor.

"Okay."

He gets back in bed and makes sure to cover her tightly with the sheets before he sneaks underneath them too. He aims to spoon her again, but she rolls over before he could. Instead, she rests her head on his chest, and he circles an arm around her to keep her close. She sighs softly and relaxes against him. He kisses the top of her head, his lips lingering a little

I love you. So much. He doesn't say it yet—he overthinks; worries if it's soon, if she'll appreciate it or even reciprocates it—, but he thinks it every day. Part of him thinks she knows it already, but he still doesn't dare.

"So, good birthday?" He whispers, drawing soft circles on her lower back. She hums tiredly, her eyes already closed.

"It was just a regular day," she says back, that stubborn edge to her voice present even when she's visibly tired. "But, I guess, it wasn't as bad as the other seventeen ones," she adds meekly.

He smiles triumphantly.

He already made up for one out of seventeen bad birthdays. Sixteen more to go. And many more to come.