I shoved the door to my bedroom open, practically throwing Jun across the threshold. I slammed it shut behind us, the final click echoing the embarrassing, frantic scream I'd just let out downstairs. The sound was a loud, desperate full stop to the public humiliation orchestrated by my parents. We were safe, finally. The air in my room felt like a cold, healing cloth against the intense, ridiculous heat radiating from my face.
It took a full second to realize I was still holding onto his face. My hand, which had clamped down on his cheek with the iron grip of a terrified predator, was still resting there, leaving an angry red stain on his pale skin.
I snatched my hand back as if I'd been burned, the instant guilt replacing my shame. He was still recovering, and I had just manhandled him like a child.
"I—I'm sorry," I gasped, looking at the harsh crease marks my fingers had left.
He didn't rub the spot or tease me. He simply watched me. Hesitantly, I reached out again, but this time my touch was light, almost fearful. My fingertips traced the irritated skin, a soft, slow caress over his cheekbone.
"Does it hurt?" I whispered, my voice rough. I kept my eyes focused on his cheek. "It's been a while since... you teased me like that. In front of them. Please let me get used to it."
He still didn't speak. Instead, he slowly lifted his own hand and placed it gently over mine, trapping my palm against his cheek. My entire attention snapped to his eyes. His typical teasing spark was gone, replaced by an intense, dark sincerity that felt like a physical pressure.
He wasn't saying anything. He wasn't using any of his ridiculous nicknames or joking about our future. Yet, in that absolute silence, with our eyes locked and our breathing suddenly mirroring each other's, my heart hammered against my ribs harder than it had when I fought through the hospital doors. The heat returned, but this time it was a blush rising from my neck. I saw the tell-tale flush of pink on the tips of his ears.
I tore my hand away, whirling around immediately to present my back to him, desperate to hide the unmanaged, embarrassing side of me that he seemed so capable of revealing.
"You," I commanded, my voice surprisingly steady as I pointed vaguely toward the corner, "sit down. I need to... tidy things. And set up your futon. Don't touch anything."
I pulled the spare bedding from the closet and began to lay out the futon. My movements were sharp and precise, driven by a singular, immediate goal: distance. I wanted the space to be large enough to assert my control but small enough to prove my commitment. I mentally paced the gap from the edge of my bed to the futon, adjusting the mat inch by inch until I was satisfied. Yes. This should be far enough. At least sixty centimeters. A secure, platonic buffer for a safe recovery.
"What are you doing?" Jun's voice, now right beside me, made me jump.
"What does it look like?" I retorted, not turning around. "I'm making your futon. You're sleeping here."
"Um, but we are gonna sleep together, right?"
I spun around, my cheeks once again on fire. "Baka! Of course not!" I grabbed the pillow and shoved it onto the mat. "You are still recovering! You need your space and an unobstructed airflow. We are not..." I trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.
The actual reason, my inner voice hissed, is that if you were next to me, I wouldn't trust myself to keep my vow to wait until we are truly ready. Not after two years.
Jun didn't press the issue. He merely sighed dramatically, walked the sixty-centimeter gap, and collapsed onto my bed, his body sinking into the blanket with a blissful groan.
"Fine. If my beloved is so insistent on maintaining her honor," he mumbled into my pillow, a low sound that was just loud enough to reach me, "then I suppose I must respect her wishes. Though this extra bedding is clearly going to be useless..."
I ignored the last part, focusing instead on smoothing the wrinkles from his hastily made futon.
"Yui," he said, his voice now sharp with interest. "Is this your diary?"
My blood ran cold. The object in question was a thick, leather-bound volume—the private, agonizing record of every vow, every scream, every desperate plea I'd sent to the sea. It was the complete, raw theology of my love for him. It was a book that, compared to its contents, would make The Tale of Genji read like a disinterested tax report.
"No!" I shouted, bolting upright. "Don't touch that! It's not a diary!"
I scrambled onto the bed, pushing myself over the blanket.
He was laughing now, a triumphant, warm sound that made my panic even worse. He grabbed the book just as I lunged, holding it out of my reach.
"Oh? Not a diary? Then what is it? A classified document on 'How to Be the Most Beautiful, Stubborn Girl in Town'?"
"Give it back!" I lunged again, grabbing his arm. The struggle was clumsy and desperate. We twisted violently on the blanket, the book falling away, forgotten. In the next instant, I found myself pressed flat against his chest, my knees pinned on either side of his hips.
My hands were on his chest. His arms were wrapped around my back, not holding me, but stabilizing the fall. We were too close. Our chests were rising and falling in unison, our breathing heavy, mixing with the ragged air he was expelling. My eyes, wide with panic, were locked onto his. The laughter died, leaving only an intense, silent heat—the primal certainty of a long-delayed answer.
And then, I heard it. Not the sound of a thump, but the frantic, panicked drumming inside my own chest. THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP. It was loud, deafeningly loud, the rhythmic sound of my absolute loss of control, a confession more honest than any word I could speak. I felt his own rapid pulse beneath my fingers, matching the fierce, chaotic tempo of my own. We were suspended there, breathing the same air, on the absolute point of no return.
"KIDS! DINNER IS READY!" my mother's booming voice called up the stairs.
The sound, perfectly timed, shattered the moment like a hammer hitting glass. I inhaled sharply, pulling away before either of us could move or say another word.