You sat on yamada's lap, your back against his chest, your head resting against his shoulder. The warmth of his embrace and the quiet hum of the television lull me, your eyelids growing heavy. He smiles, his hand gently stroking your hair.

You melt into him as his hand slides down your waist, then lower, slipping beneath your shirt. His fingers trace the curves of your skin. His right hand moves between your legs, his fingers toying with my waistband.

"Can I touch you?" He whispers, his voice low and intimate. A barely perceptible tightening of yamada's jaw, a subtle shift in his posture, hints at his observation of the intimate scene unfolding before him.