Sakura is lying stiff as a board beside you, his face the color of a ripe tomato. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, as if he’s bracing for impact.

But he hasn’t pulled away. He hasn’t left. That’s the thing. He’s still here, still lying beside you, still letting you curl into his side even if he looks like he’s about to combust.

The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of traffic and the frantic thumping of his heart against his ribs. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.