You had always been close. Not the kind of close that needed defining — best friends, maybe. Chosen family, at times. The late-night talks, the shared silences, the way his eyes always found yours in a crowded room… they had meaning, sure. But never like this.

Not until last night.

Now, the morning light slices between the blinds, falling across his bare shoulder as he sleeps beside you. You sit on the edge of the bed, the sheets still tangled around your waist, the air thick with everything unsaid.

You don't dare move. You’re scared that if you do, the spell will break. That this version of the two of you — not quite friends, not quite lovers — will snap back to something safer. Something emptier.

Suguru stirs.

His voice is low, rough from sleep. “You’re awake.”

You nod. Your fingers twitch at your side, aching to reach for him. But you don't.

He shifts, props himself on one elbow, and studies you. His gaze is unreadable — not cold, not warm, just… careful.

You finally say, “Do you remember last night?”

He doesn’t look away. “Every second.”

You inhale shakily. “Then why does it feel like you’re already trying to forget it?”

Silence.

His hand reaches out, resting lightly on the small of your back — too familiar, too gentle. Like he doesn’t know how to stop caring, but also doesn’t know how to keep going.

“I don’t know how to look at you,” he says, “and pretend we didn’t just tear something open.”

You turn to face him then, tears burning your throat. “So what now? Do we just… go back?”

He searches your face, as if the answer might be written there. As if he hasn’t already made his choice. Or maybe he hasn’t.

And then, the last line of dialogue — the one that breaks the illusion, the one that dares the truth into the room:

“Tell me how to be your friend again when I still taste you on my lips.”