Haruka's fingers lingered against my arm for only a heartbeat before slipping away, trembling faintly as if the act itself had drained her. But instead of pulling back, she shifted closer—so close her knees brushed mine when she moved to sit right in front of me on the sofa.
Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling in shallow waves, but her eyes… her eyes stayed fixed on me with a fragile kind of determination, like a bird taking its first flight.
"…Mochizuki-san?" I asked gently, not moving an inch.
"I—I know you said we don't have to force anything," she whispered, voice trembling, "but if I run away again, I'll just keep hating myself for it. I don't… I don't want that anymore."
Her hands reached down, hesitating just above my waistline. Her fingers brushed the fabric of my belt like she was touching live electricity.
A nervous laugh escaped her throat, thin and self-mocking. "See? My hands are shaking like crazy… what kind of grown woman am I, acting like a teenager?"
I caught her gaze and smiled, steady and unhurried. "You're Mochizuki Haruka. That's more than enough."
She bit down on her lower lip, gathering courage from my words. Slowly, carefully, she tugged at my belt buckle. The faint metallic clink of it coming undone sounded louder than the movie still playing in the background.
Her breath grew ragged, every exhale brushing against me as she leaned in closer. Her fingers worked clumsily at first, fumbling with the button, then the zipper. But she didn't stop—didn't retreat.
And then, with one final, shaky pull, she slid my pants down just far enough, and my length sprang free, catching her full attention.
"Ah…" Her breath caught, eyes widening, pupils dilating as her lips parted in silent awe. Her face flushed crimson instantly, the tips of her ears practically glowing.
For a moment she just stared, frozen, caught between curiosity and panic.
I stayed silent, giving her that space, only reaching out to gently tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
Her voice cracked when she finally spoke. "…I… actually did it."
Her fingers hovered in the air, trembling faintly as though she'd just touched something forbidden. Haruka's breathing grew uneven, shallow little gasps that betrayed just how far outside her comfort zone she'd stepped.
"…It's… so much different than I imagined," she whispered, her voice almost swallowed by the hum of the projector and the soft rustle of her own nervous movements.
Her wide eyes flicked up to mine for just a second—just long enough for me to see the cocktail of emotions swirling there: awe, embarrassment, and an undercurrent of fear that she was doing something wrong.
I didn't laugh, didn't tease, didn't let her drown in that fear. Instead, I reached out slowly and rested my hand lightly against the back of hers. Not guiding—just reminding her I was here, steady, patient.
"You don't have to rush," I murmured. "Even just this much… it means a lot."
Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow. "B-but… if I stop here, I'll just feel like a coward again."
Her other hand clutched at the hem of her nightgown, crumpling the fabric tight in her grip. Her knuckles were pale with the effort of holding herself together, but her gaze kept returning to me, almost begging for reassurance.
I leaned back just slightly, giving her more room, more control over the moment. "Then take your time. You don't have to be perfect, Mochizuki-san. You don't even have to be smooth. Just… be you."
Her lips quivered into the tiniest smile, shaky but real. "…You always make it sound so simple."
"Because it is," I replied, warmth filling my voice. "At least with me."
Haruka exhaled a long, shuddering breath, shoulders sagging as though some invisible weight had loosened its grip. Her fingers inched closer again, hesitating, retreating, then creeping forward once more. Each millimeter carried the weight of her hesitation—and her determination.
She lingered just above me, her hand trembling so close I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her gaze wavered between my face and what she'd uncovered, cheeks burning hotter every second.
"…It's really… right there," she muttered under her breath, almost in disbelief.
I couldn't help smiling softly. "It is. And it's yours to decide what to do with—or not at all."
Her breath hitched again, but this time, instead of pulling back, she squeezed her eyes shut for a heartbeat, as if summoning courage from some hidden reservoir. When she opened them again, there was still fear—but now, behind it, a flicker of quiet resolve.
Her fingers hovered, trembling, pausing just a hair's breadth above me.
I could see her knuckles whiten, see how badly she wanted to pull back. Her lips parted, closed, parted again—no words came out.
Her eyes flicked up, searching my face as if begging me to give her permission one more time.
I smiled—slow, reassuring, steady as bedrock. "It's okay."
That was all. Just those two words. But they seemed to reach her in a way nothing else had.
She let out a shaky breath—half whimper, half laugh—and finally, finally lowered her hand.
The warmth of her palm pressed against me, tentative, feather-light at first, as though afraid the slightest pressure might break something. Her whole body flinched at the contact, eyes widening, lips trembling like she'd crossed some invisible point of no return.
"…!" She sucked in a sharp breath, holding it, as if time itself had stopped.
Her face flushed scarlet all the way down her neck, ears glowing, and yet—she didn't pull away. Her hand remained there, resting against me, fingers curling ever so slightly as she grew aware of the heat, the weight, the reality of it.
"It's… warm…" she whispered, stunned, as though she hadn't expected such a simple, human detail.
I chuckled softly, not mocking—just easing her nerves. "That's usually the case, yeah."
Her cheeks puffed up in mortified protest, but her hand stayed put. Slowly, she gave the tiniest squeeze—clumsy, cautious, but undeniably hers.
Her eyes darted back up to mine, full of anxious hope, like a student seeking approval after turning in her very first assignment.
I reached out, brushing my fingers gently through her hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. "See? Nothing scary. You're doing just fine."
Her lips quivered into a fragile, beautiful smile. "…R-really?"
"Really."
Her hand lingered against me, fingers curled just enough to remind herself that this was real, not a dream. The nervous quiver in her shoulders betrayed how much courage it took just to keep her palm there.
"…It's heavier than I thought," she whispered, her tone a mix of wonder and embarrassment, as if she'd just said something scandalous out loud.
I let out a quiet chuckle. "You're allowed to say whatever you're thinking, Mochizuki-san. I won't laugh."
Her blush deepened, her lips tugging into a pout, but the sound of my voice seemed to steady her trembling just a little. She drew in another shaky breath and, slowly, almost experimentally, shifted her hand.
Her fingers slid a fraction, tracing along the length with a hesitance so tender it felt like she was touching something sacred. Her breath hitched at the sensation beneath her palm, the corners of her eyes trembling as if each tiny movement was overwhelming.
"Ah… it twitched," she murmured, startled, yanking her hand back half a centimeter before forcing herself to lay it down again. Her chest rose and fell quickly, betraying her inner panic. "…It really reacts…"
I smiled softly, leaning in just enough for my voice to brush against her ear. "That's because it's you, Mochizuki-san."
Her whole body jolted, thighs pressing together tightly, her face burning crimson. "…D-don't say things like that…!"
But her fingers betrayed her words, curling again, giving another cautious squeeze. This time she didn't pull back. Instead, she lingered there, her thumb shifting almost on its own, as though tracing and testing the reality of what she was holding.
Every tiny motion seemed to surprise her, every reaction sparking wide-eyed fascination that battled with her embarrassment. She tilted her head, lips parted in a soft, nervous murmur. "…It feels so… alive."
I rested a gentle hand against her shoulder, grounding her. "That's a good way to put it."
Her breathing was uneven, her pulse practically visible at her neck, but slowly—hesitantly—she began to explore. Her touch wandered, fingers sliding a little further each time, as though mapping unfamiliar terrain. Awkward at first, her motions stuttered and paused, but she never pulled away. If anything, her grip grew a little firmer, her curiosity slowly peeking out from behind the curtain of fear.
She stole another glance at me, voice trembling as she whispered, "…Am I… doing this right?"