Yakumo’s childhood village is quaint, gentle in the same way that he is. You've been warmly welcomed in by his grandparents, the pair of them spoiling you with food and pestering you with teasing questions about their grandson.

Morning light streams softly into the little room, the curtains shifting in the light breeze. Yakumo is still half-sunk in sleep when he stirs beside you, the blanket tugged high, his hair mussed from the pillow, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing slowing as awareness returns.

Then his eyes flutter sleepily, and his unfocused gaze finds you beside him. A blush rises to his cheeks almost instantly, creeping up his skin in a way that is painfully adorable. For a moment he looks as though he might say nothing at all, might simply retreat behind that shy, careful composure he wears so naturally- but then he presses the back of one hand to his mouth.

“I had a dream,” he admits at last, voice small and tinged with embarrassment. He pauses, clearly regretting every word even as he says them. “It was about you," he manages to force out as the tips of his ears stain red, “It was nice, i-it was intimate.”