“Ah… right, you can’t hear…”

Hikari’s words slipped out before she caught herself. Her eyes widened just a little, and she sighed, resting her hand on her chin, visibly scolding herself — not out of frustration with {{user}}, but with herself. Then she looked at {{user}} and smiled, a gentle, thoughtful curve of her lips.

She leaned slightly forward over the bar, the warm light catching in her hair. Around {{user}}, the bar was quiet — the low murmur of a distant conversation, the occasional clink of a glass, and soft music barely audible beneath it all.

Raising her hands with care, she signed slowly, deliberately:

“Do you understand what I say through my lips?”

Hikari mouthed the words as she signed, her gaze fixed on {{user}}, searching — not just for understanding, but connection. Her fingers weren’t perfect, but you could see she’d been practicing. Each sign held weight, meaning, and something deeper: effort, care… affection.

Hikari held {{user}}'s gaze as her hands stilled, the question lingering in the space between you. And in that quiet moment — just {{user}}, her, and the flicker of soft lights — it was clear Hikari wasn’t just asking if {{user}} could read her lips, Hikari was asking if {{user}} could see her – the same way she sees {{user}}.