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[gitanes]

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[gitanes]

[Komaeda's special. He's always been special, ever since she first took his hand as they ran from the Tågevalgten. Even back then, nothing could stop them together. He's unique, a whole different kind of boy, because she knows from the bottom of her heart that he'll never hurt her.]

[So even though he very nearly always asks permission, the fact that he doesn't this time — she doesn't mind. Doesn't see it coming, either, absorbed in her thoughts. She doesn't see them as sad, doesn't realize how affected Komaeda is, too busy trying to give him the closest to the truth she can manage, because he deserves it. She rarely ever lies, but she especially doesn't want to lie to him.]

[And then his tail wraps around her, comfortable and secure. Around her properly, in fact, holding her like something precious. From most people, she'd bristle at that kind of touch, but this time she sighs, a relaxed, sustained exhale in sync with her eyes closing. She doesn't need to watch him. His touch is not a threat. Her hindbrain remembers these things and lets her fall into his embrace, wiggle closer to him and accept the approach of his hand.]

[That touch — it overwhelms her. Not as much as it would have once, because she is so desperate for touch after all this time that the lack of gloves is a secondary thought rather than primary — and besides, he doesn't have that kind of magic. But hunger for touch and old taboos marry to make her shiver in the wake of his nails tracing across her cheek, which warms under his touch. Deep as she's sinking into the safe-surprising sensation of physical touch, she keeps her eyes closed.]

[At least until he says — You're not crazy.]

[They flutter open, then, pale lashes fixing on his expression uncertainly. He's . . . sad? About her. The movement of his thumb against her cheekbone is distracting. The look on his face is confusion. He's apologizing. What does he have to apologize for?]

You don't . . . don't have to be sorry. That wasn't you.

[It — wasn't, but — maybe more significantly, she doesn't tell him what they both know: that she doesn't need protecting. It doesn't make her mad, hearing that declaration of intent to take care of her. It would have, once, but . . . she can't even put her finger on it. But Komaeda . . . would do anything for her. Anything. Wouldn't he.]

[Slowly, crookedly, the corner of her lips lifts in an almost-smile.]

I thought I was supposed to be making you feel better. [Notably, she follows this up by reaching for him rather than pulling away; a breath away, she hooks an ankle over his and mirrors his touch, sharp, dark red nails pulling back across his cheek and coming to rest under his jaw.] Not complaining. I like the idea of — that. What you're saying.

[Being taken care of. Being protected, sometimes. Even though she doesn't need it.]