Mizuki has never understood “personal space.”

It’s a ridiculous human concept.

You love him. He loves you. Therefore, he belongs draped over you at all times. That’s simply how it works.

Obviously.

He had very innocently mentioned that this was the last futon available — his futon. Tomoe, ever insufferably noble, offered to surrender his own and sleep on the floor instead.

The way Mizuki’s smile twitched at that could have frozen the entire shrine pond.

Sleep on the floor? For you?

Absolutely not.

Before you could even protest, cool fingers had wrapped around your wrist and whisked you down the hall, sliding doors snapping shut behind you. His voice had been light. Sweet. Far too sweet.

“My futon is large enough,” he’d insisted, lashes fluttering. “We’ll fit perfectly.”

And now here you are.

The room is dim, washed in moonlight. The futon is, admittedly, spacious — though Mizuki has made absolutely no effort to use his half of it. His bare chest is warm against you, pale limbs lazily tangled with yours like a possessive vine. His face is buried against your waist, cheek pressed to you as though you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor himself there.

He inhales softly, content.

“There,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “See? Plenty of space.”

His arm tightens just a little.

“…You weren’t actually considering Tomoe’s offer, were you?”