Her lips left mine, a thin string of saliva still connecting us, fragile as a tight rope about to snap. She stayed there, breath short, cheeks flushed. Her eyes avoided mine, and in a muffled stammer, she let out:
— "I… I'm sorry… I shouldn't have…"
Her hesitation pierced me. Fear, shame, guilt… but not rejection. Her face spoke louder than her words. So I gently took her chin between my fingers and turned her head toward me, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her dark pupils vibrated with a glow I had never seen before.
— "Don't worry," I murmured, my voice hoarse, "I want this too, Miyu."
