Rising on socked feet, Sena Ajisai crossed the tatami-edged floor and clicked off the chandelier so Kazama Haru could sleep without the sting of tungsten in his eyes.
The room dimmed in a single soft breath. Only the moon slipped through the sheer curtains now, laying long silver bars across the low kotatsu, across the lip of her half-drunk barley tea, across the shape of the boy folded awkwardly against the sofa cushions.
"Ehh… his neck's gonna cramp like that. Maybe I should…"
Even though logic told her the apartment was empty—no roommates, no nosy neighbors pressing ears to the shoji—she still darted her gaze around like a shoplifter in a konbini, cheeks warming at what she was about to do.
If Haru-kun finds out tomorrow, I'll just—I'll say the sofa was too small. That's plausible, right? Right?
Ajisai drew a slow, steadying breath through her nose, catching the layered scent of the room: the citrus of the peel drying on the counter, the ghost of yuzu shower gel still clinging to her own damp hair, and beneath it all the bitter-sweet grain of the sake Togawa had bullied Haru into drinking. She lowered herself onto the sofa's edge with the care of a girl balancing an unstable jenga tower, then gathered the sleeping boy's head with both hands—so gently, so gently—and eased it down onto the bare stretch of her thighs.
Her sleep shorts had ridden up. There was no fabric between his cheek and her skin. None.
The heat of him hit her like the first sip of miso on a snowy morning—startling, warm, humbling. Kazama Haru, deep in the tar-thick sleep of the pleasantly drunk, registered none of this exquisite anguish being levied upon her: he only frowned in his dream, mumbling half-formed syllables that dissolved before they could mean anything.
Like a stray cat pushing into a sunbeam, he nuzzled deeper.
Habit turned him. He always slept face-down at home—Ajisai knew because she'd seen his futon during a study session two summers ago—and now his instincts hunted for that familiar angle. He rolled his cheek inward. His nose pressed to the curve of her inner thigh. His lips, chapped and slack with sleep, grazed the soft dip just above her knee.
"Hnn—!"
The sound punched out of her before she could catch it. She clamped a hand over her own mouth, eyes going wide as saucers, hair falling in a curtain across her flushed face. His breath was doing something terrible to her. Terrible and wonderful. Every exhale unfurled hot and alcohol-sweet across the delicate skin of her thigh, a slow feather-drag that made the muscles there twitch, made her toes curl involuntarily inside her house slippers, made a strange coiled warmth begin blooming low—somewhere under her navel, somewhere she wasn't supposed to be thinking about while a boy was sleeping.
Baka, baka, baka. He's dreaming. He doesn't know. Don't you dare, Ajisai. Don't you dare enjoy this.
But her thighs pressed together anyway, a small betraying squeeze, and her heart was hammering so hard she was sure the vibration alone would wake him. Beneath her oversized cream cardigan, beneath the thin cotton camisole, she felt her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the cool night air. She squeezed her eyes shut. Bit her lip. Counted the wooden slats on the ceiling. Anything to steady the tremor rippling through her.
Slowly—shakily—she leaned forward and drew him closer, gathering him against her like something precious salvaged from a shipwreck.
"So warm…" Kazama Haru murmured, burrowing into her like a puppy into a laundry pile.
Every last ember of resistance in her chest surrendered. That soft, defenseless syllable undid her. She smiled—the kind of smile she never let anyone see, all trembling corners and helpless adoration—and laid her palm on his crown, combing back the caramel-brown forelocks that had matted damp against his brow.
"Yoshi, yoshi. Haru-kun is the best boy in the world, ne? So please, please stop working yourself half to death. And no more of Togawa-san's sake bombs. Promise Ajisai-neechan you'll cut back, mm?"
"Nnn…"
Whether he understood or not, a contented rumble buzzed against her thigh. It vibrated up her spine like a plucked shamisen string.
"There, there. Good boy." She giggled, and—summoning a courage she couldn't have found while he was awake for any bribe on earth—she poked his cheek. The skin gave beneath her fingertip and rebounded, soft as fresh mochi. Her fingertip lingered there, tracing the outline of a mole below his ear she'd never been close enough to notice before.
Kami-sama. Two whole years I've been in love with him. Two years, and I'm learning his face like it's the first day.
This unreal happiness climbed her throat as an ache, and before she could scold it away, tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.
Perhaps sensing the shift in her breathing, or perhaps chased by some phantom in his own dream, Kazama Haru twisted restlessly in her lap and whispered—
"Iya da… itte, iya da…"
Don't go. Don't leave.
"Okaa-san…"
The word broke her.
For a boy who had lost everything at seven and rebuilt himself into someone who carried entire ensembles on his back—for that boy to whimper for his mother in the safe dark of her lap—Sena Ajisai felt her ribs cave inward like paper.
He gave and gave and gave to those girls in the light music club. But when the lights went out, who held him?
Her tears fell warm and fast, dotting the collar of his shirt. She scrubbed them away with the back of her wrist and tightened her arms around him, tucking his ear against the thump of her heart.
"Un. Okaa-san wa koko ni iru yo." She pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and reverent, then rested her chin on the crown of his head. "Mama's right here. Not going anywhere, Haru-kun. Not tonight. Not ever."
In this hushed monochrome hour, she had become someone else—an angel with dark hair the color of wet pine bark, spilling in messy waves over one shoulder; hazel eyes glassy with quiet tears; a body all gentle slopes beneath the wool of her oversized cardigan, warm and safe and here.
She waited until his breathing settled into the slow, deep tide of true sleep. And then, with the safety of his unconsciousness as her chapel, the confession she'd been swallowing for a decade finally overflowed.
"Nee, Haru-kun. Wanna know a secret?"
Her index finger traced the arch of his brow, the ridge of his nose, and came to rest just above his lips.
"That day you asked me what my wish was—both times, I lied. As expected of me... Coward until the end."
Moonlight silvered the wet tracks on her cheeks.
"If I could be selfish, just once, my only wish would be that your eyes look at me. Just me. But—mou—Haru-kun has been popular since forever, hasn't he? Elementary school PE, all the girls fighting to be on your team. Middle school shoe locker, love letters practically avalanching out every morning."
A wet, hiccuping laugh escaped her.
"Ah—remember Emi-chan? When she made me deliver her love letter to you, I was so mad I could've cried. What if you said yes to her, huh? What if you started avoiding me to spare her feelings? What was I supposed to do then, baka Haru?"
"But I still gave it to you. And you—mou, you just quietly slid it into your bag and shook your head at me, and then you grabbed my hand—remember? Your palm was so warm—and you asked if you could come over for oyakodon that night."
Her cheeks puffed out.
"Do you have any idea, Kazama Haru, how much anxiety I've swallowed on your behalf? And now you're spending every waking hour with Togawa-sani's crew. How am I supposed to compete with an ojou-sama who plays bass like she's cursing the gods?"
As if answering her, Haru smacked his lips and nuzzled deeper, one hand curling loosely against her hip in blind, drowsy trust.
Every complaint dissolved.
"…Demo ne. Even so. I like you the most."
She lowered her head until her cheek rested in his hair.
"Just being able to hold you like this, when you finally need someone to hold you—This is my true wish."
Ding.
Even wrapped in the black cotton of drunken sleep, a familiar chime rang crisp and bright at the edge of Kazama Haru's dreaming.
[Silently witnessed Sena Ajisai's confession. +500 Wish Points awarded.]
...
Morning light spilled buttery gold across the tatami. It touched Kazama Haru's face first, warming his eyelids, and behind that came the reassuring hum of citrus—yuzu, faintly, and something floral he couldn't name.
His hangover was… oddly gentle. The usual jackhammer behind his eyes had been muted, as if some kind spirit had spent the night pressing cool palms against his temples.
Huh. Since when do my pillows smell like tangerine peel?
The events of last night surged back in a humiliating rush—Togawa-senpai's grin as she poured him yet another cup, the whole light music club chanting "chug, chug, chug" while he chugged. After that: static. Where was he?
His eyelids peeled open. His vision blurred, then sharpened.
A slender arm, pale as fresh tofu, was looped protectively around his neck.
He'd recognize that arm anywhere—the small mole on the inner wrist, the freckle at the crook of the elbow, the faint scar from when she'd caught herself on a chain-link fence in fourth grade.
His gaze traveled upward and landed on Sena Ajisai's sleeping profile: chin tipped forward, hair spilled across the sofa cushion, dark lashes lying against her cheeks like the wings of a resting swallowtail. Her lips were parted the barest fraction. Her breath came slow and even.
And beneath his own cheek, unmistakably warm and unmistakably soft, lay the joined pillow of her thighs.
This is... a lap pillow?