Chapter Text
The world smelled like ash and dew.
The fire had long since dwindled into glowing embers, but the warmth lingered on Sakura’s skin. He stirred slowly, lids heavy with sleep, the soft thrum of a heartbeat humming under his cheek. His breath puffed against a cotton shirt, and the arm wrapped around him shifted slightly, instinctively holding him closer.
“Morning,” Kiryu murmured.
His voice was barely there, still husky with sleep, but kind. Always kind.
Sakura blinked, vision clearing under the soft morning light filtering through the trees. He’d fallen asleep curled against Kiryu’s chest, legs tangled loosely, their bodies forming a pocket of peace amid the leftover smoke and sleeping bodies strewn across the campsite.
He stretched a little, bones cracking softly, and gave a sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to use you as a body pillow all night.”
Kiryu only shrugged, his thumb gently brushing along Sakura’s spine. “Didn’t mind. You sleep better when you’re not alone.”
That made Sakura pause. Then—he nodded, quietly.
He didn’t have to say it. Kiryu already knew.
They sat in silence for a while, the air crisp with morning chill. Farther down by the logs, Nirei was half-awake, hair sticking up in wild tufts as he poked at cold embers with a twig. Tsuguera lay draped over a log like a sleepy cat, muttering something about push-ups. Endo had his back to a tree, already up, arms crossed as he scanned the clearing with the alertness of a sentry.
And then came the click of sandals on dry grass.
“Breakfast delivery~.”
Suo approached with his usual lazy grace, balancing two wrapped bento boxes in one hand and a thermos tucked under his arm. His eyes sparkled, even in the morning light, and a half-smirk curved his lips.
“I bring offerings to the bonfire god and his devoted priest,” he said, crouching beside them.
Kiryu snorted. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”
“Never did,” Suo replied, handing Sakura the thermos. “Chamomile and ginger. Thought you could use something that settles your stomach.”
Sakura blinked, touched by the gesture. “Thanks…”
Suo reached over and brushed a loose strand of white hair from Sakura’s cheek, gentle as a breeze. “You looked beautiful last night, by the way. Even when you were crying.”
Sakura flushed. “That’s—don't say that like it’s a compliment.”
“But it is.”
Before Sakura could retort, another presence approached—quiet, but heavy with something solid. Reliable.
Umemiya.
His white hair was mussed, and his jacket was half-zipped like he’d only just woken up. There was still sleep in his eyes, but his gaze sharpened the moment he saw Sakura.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him—really looked.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Umemiya crouched down beside him and ruffled his hair, rough but affectionate.
“Didn’t think you’d sleep this long, sleepyhead.”
“I was tired.”
“Yeah,” Umemiya murmured. “You were.”
His hand lingered a little too long in Sakura’s hair before he sat beside him, sandwiching Sakura between him and Kiryu like it was his rightful place.
Suo passed the second bento to Umemiya, then pulled a mini cup from his coat pocket and poured tea from the thermos into it.
It was ridiculous. Silly. Domestic.
Sakura watched them — the three of them — and felt something settle in his chest. Not just safety.
Belonging.
He leaned back slightly into Kiryu’s side, letting Umemiya bump their knees together and Suo rest a lazy arm behind him.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve all of you,” he murmured.
Kiryu smiled down at him. “You survived.”
Umemiya’s expression softened into something unreadable. “And you kept going.”
Suo lifted the teacup and tapped it against his own lips like a silent toast. “And you stayed beautiful through it all.”
Sakura looked down, blinking fast.
The warmth in his chest wasn’t fire this time. It was sunlight.
The quiet didn’t last long.
“Good morningggg!!”
Tsuguera’s voice came loud and bright, piercing the tender silence like a ray of reckless sunlight. He half-jogged up from the creekside, sleeves rolled up, hair a fluffy orange mess still dripping with water.
He dropped to the ground beside the group and tossed a damp towel over Umemiya’s head.
“Someone tell me why I always wake up first! I should’ve dragged you all for a morning run!”
“No,” Sakura and Suo said in unison. Kiryu hummed a polite “maybe later.”
Tsuguera grinned anyway and reached over to grab Sakura’s hand like it was second nature, clasping it in both of his. “Hey. You look... better. Not like you were about to set someone on fire. Good kind of better.”
Sakura gave a tired chuckle. “Thanks. You look like you fell in the river.”
“I did! On purpose. It’s the only way to wake up properly,” he said proudly.
He didn’t let go of Sakura’s hand right away. He squeezed it once, quick and earnest, and then beamed at him like he’d just solved a math problem with his heart.
Across the clearing, Nirei was struggling with his hoodie, tangled up in it like a mouse caught in a sweater. He tripped over his own feet on the way over, face pink before he even opened his mouth.
“Uh—good morning,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve. “Did you eat yet? Should I—do you want something sweet? I brought mochi yesterday but forgot about it.”
Sakura stood and walked over, tugging Nirei’s hoodie down properly so his face peeked out. “You always bring sweets.”
“I like watching you eat them,” Nirei said before he could stop himself. Then froze. “I—I mean—”
Sakura leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I know what you meant.”
Nirei made a sound like a teakettle boiling over and immediately buried his face in Sakura’s shoulder.
Somewhere behind them, a camera clicked.
“Oh, that’s definitely getting printed,” Jo Togame said, phone in hand, all polished poise and red lipstick already applied, despite the hour.
He approached with a fresh change of clothes and a twinkle in his eye. “You boys are disgusting in the morning, but somehow still photogenic. It’s infuriating.”
“Good morning, Jo,” Sakura said, smiling at him through strands of silver hair.
Jo leaned down and pressed a featherlight kiss to Sakura’s temple. “Morning, my Othello.”
That made Sakura freeze for a beat—then lower his gaze, flustered but soft.
Tsubaki arrived not long after, carrying mugs in both hands and a portable mirror tucked under one arm. He passed one mug to Jo and gave Sakura a fond look.
“You didn’t wander off by yourself. That’s a first.”
Sakura rolled his eyes. “You always make it sound like I’m a stray cat.”
“You are,” Tsubaki said simply, but gently. “But you’re a loved one.”
He gave Sakura a once-over and then started brushing down his hair with practiced hands, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to groom your favorite underclassman in public. “Still a bit of ash here. You’re lucky I brought my comb.”
Kiryu hummed in agreement. “He’s very lucky.”
“I’m surrounded,” Sakura muttered, but it was said with a small smile.
From the edge of the trees, Kotoha and Uryu were watching with matching expressions — somewhere between fondness and quiet confusion.
“You’re up early,” Kotoha called, stepping down with her apron still dusted in flour. “We’re prepping brunch. Come eat before I start throwing eggs.”
“You always threaten that,” Jo said.
“One day I’ll do it,” Kotoha replied.
“Terrifying woman,” Suo whispered, grinning.
—
As the morning settled into the usual low buzz of domestic chaos, Sakura looked around at the soft chaos around him — Tsuguera practicing karate kicks barefoot, Nirei sneaking pieces of mochi to Sugishita (who glared but didn’t say no), Jo and Tsubaki arguing over makeup brushes, Kiryu listening with his quiet smile.
And in the middle of it all — him. Still here. Still held.
Later, after brunch and laughter and half the group had drifted off to clean up or nap, Sakura found himself sitting with Suo beneath the shaded side of the shrine, where the light dappled through the leaves like falling gold.
Suo was lying back on the steps, legs long and crossed at the ankle, hands folded behind his head.
“I used to think you were trouble,” Suo said, eyes half-lidded. “Too sharp around the edges. Too pretty for your own good.”
Sakura raised a brow. “And now?”
“Now I think I was right,” Suo grinned. “But I like trouble.”
Sakura snorted, and for a moment, there was nothing but wind.
Then Suo sat up slowly and reached out, cupping Sakura’s cheek.
“I watched you break last night. Just for a moment.” His voice was soft, almost reverent. “And I realized I never want to see that again unless you let me be the one holding you through it.”
Sakura’s breath caught.
Suo leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth — not a claim, but a promise.
“I’m not good at big declarations. I flirt, I joke. But I meant it, you know. When I said you’re everything I look back at.”
Sakura touched his hand, squeezed once. “Then don’t look away.”
“I won’t,” Suo murmured. “Not even if you tell me to.”
Sakura found Nirei a little later, away from the others.
He was sitting by the edge of the riverbank with his shoes off, bare feet dipped into the slow current, hands resting on his knees. A few petals from a nearby tree floated downstream beside him. The breeze ruffled his blond hair into soft tufts, and there was a quietness in his posture that Sakura knew too well — the kind of silence that wasn’t loneliness, but waiting.
Sakura approached slowly, not wanting to startle him.
“Hey.”
Nirei looked up and gave a tiny smile. “Hey. Did I disappear too long?”
“You’re allowed to take space,” Sakura replied, settling beside him. The river was cold against his ankles, but soothing. “I just wanted to see you.”
Nirei blushed a little at that and looked down, shoulders curving slightly inward — as if trying to make himself smaller, quieter, easier to overlook.
“I’m not like the others,” he murmured. “I know I’m not… as cool as Suo, or as reliable as Umemiya, or as strong as Endo. Or…”
“Nirei.”
Sakura reached out and touched his wrist. “Stop.”
He turned toward him, gently. “You’re not like them, yeah. But that’s never been the point. You’re you. You’re the one who held my hand without asking why. You’re the one who brought me sweets when I couldn’t eat anything else. You made me feel safe, without trying to save me.”
Nirei’s eyes shimmered at that, wide and warm. “I didn’t know how to protect you. I just… wanted to be there.”
“And you were.”
Silence passed again, quiet as the river, until Nirei asked, barely above a whisper, “Can I touch you?”
Sakura nodded. “Please.”
Nirei’s hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped Sakura’s cheek. His thumb brushed over the edge of his jaw, reverent and unsure all at once.
“You’re so beautiful it makes me ache,” Nirei admitted, leaning in slowly, eyes flickering down to Sakura’s lips, but not crossing the distance.
Sakura didn’t wait. He closed the space between them and kissed him.
It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It wasn’t desperate or dominant. It was trembling — mouths brushing, lips soft, the edge of a sigh caught between them.
Nirei made a tiny noise of surprise, then melted into it.
The kiss deepened gradually, Nirei’s hands threading into Sakura’s hair, as if anchoring himself to something real. He gasped softly when Sakura pulled him closer by the waist, lifting one leg to straddle Nirei’s lap, chest pressed to chest.
“Sakura,” Nirei whispered, dazed.
“Let me make you feel good,” Sakura murmured into his ear. “Let me take care of you.”
And when Sakura kissed down the line of Nirei’s throat, teeth scraping lightly, the boy arched into him with a choked sound.
“I-I’m not good at this,” Nirei stammered, skin flushed and breathless. “I’ve never—”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Sakura whispered against his collarbone. “Just feel.”
Sakura was slow, attentive, careful. Every touch was soft, mouth exploring the sensitive curve of Nirei’s neck, fingers trailing under the hem of his shirt but never rushing. He kissed over Nirei’s ribs, then back up, mapping the space with worship — marking him not with bruises, but memory.
Nirei trembled under him, eyes glassy and wide. “I love you.”
Sakura stilled, breathing in.
Then—softly, not as a confession but as a truth already rooted deep—he replied:
“I know.”
Nirei’s hands cupped his face again, and they kissed like they were the only two people in the world — slow and full of emotion, of the quiet love that had always been growing like moss between them, steady and green and persistent.
By the time Sakura laid Nirei down on the riverbank, brushing petals out of his hair, the boy was crying — not from pain, but from being held, seen, and loved in a way he never believed he deserved.
And Sakura kissed every tear away, one by one.
Evening settled over the clearing in layers of gold, pink, and deepening violet. A low hum of laughter echoed from the direction of the bonfire as Jo and Tsubaki tried to teach Tsuguera how to toast marshmallows without catching them on fire. Somewhere nearby, Kiryu and Suo were deep in conversation under the lanterns, their quiet tones nearly lost in the rustling trees.
Sakura wandered from the circle, his limbs still loose with affection, his skin carrying the warmth of kisses, hands, belonging.
But it was Endo’s presence he was drawn to now.
He found him away from the group, sitting against a thick tree trunk near the slope of the hill. One leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, arms lazily draped over it. His jacket was off, shirt sleeves rolled, and his gaze was distant — watching the smoke curl into the evening sky.
“Thought you’d be surrounded,” Endo said without looking, voice low, lazy as ever.
“I was,” Sakura murmured. “But I wanted to be here.”
That made Endo glance over.
His eyes held something unreadable — not surprise, not longing. Something deeper, something hesitant. “Why?”
Sakura sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Endo’s frame.
“Because,” he said softly, “you haven’t touched me.”
Endo’s fingers curled slightly against his knee. “You’ve been held by everyone else today.”
“That’s not the same as being held by you.”
The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been.
Endo turned his head away, his jaw tight, breath slow. “I don’t want to touch you wrong,” he said finally. “I don’t want to be one more thing that hurts you.”
“You won’t,” Sakura said, voice breaking with sincerity. “You never have.”
“You saw what I did earlier,” Endo murmured, more like a growl in his throat. “That man. If you hadn’t—if I hadn’t stopped myself... I would’ve killed him. And it still wouldn’t have been enough.”
Sakura reached for him, fingers threading with Endo’s larger ones.
“Do you think I was scared of you?” he asked quietly.
Endo didn’t answer.
“I wasn’t,” Sakura said. “I was scared... of myself. Of freezing. Of the past.”
He shifted, moving closer. “But you pulled me out of it.”
Endo still didn’t move. He didn’t even look at him.
So Sakura cupped Endo’s cheek and turned his head gently.
Their eyes met — firelight flickering in Endo’s stormy gaze, something wild and vulnerable coiling just beneath the surface.
“I trust you,” Sakura whispered.
Endo swallowed hard.
“I want to be gentle with you,” he said, the words almost painful in how earnest they sounded. “But I also want to ruin anyone who looks at you wrong. I want to give you everything, and I want to make sure no one ever—ever—hurts you again.”
Sakura leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. “Then start here.”
He guided Endo’s hand to his waist.
“Hold me.”
Endo inhaled sharply, trembling — like a dam holding back something vast. His fingers closed around Sakura’s side slowly, reverently, anchoring himself in this single point of contact.
When he pulled Sakura into his lap, it was with careful strength, wrapping his arms around him without a hint of force. Just warmth. Just weight. Just a shield.
Sakura curled into him — knees tucked up, arms around Endo’s shoulders, burying his face against his neck.
They stayed that way for a long time. No words. No movement. Just heartbeats and heat and the faint scent of smoke in the air.
Then, Endo’s hand rose and cupped the back of Sakura’s head.
His mouth brushed over Sakura’s temple, barely-there, breath hot against his skin.
“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he murmured. “Even when you break, you still reach for others.”
Sakura didn’t respond.
He just let himself rest there — in the arms of someone who could shatter mountains and still chose to hold him like something sacred.
The bonfire had burned down to a thick, amber core, glowing in slow pulses like a living heart. Smoke curled up in soft spirals into the violet night, stars freckled above like glinting pins in silk.
Sakura sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, tucked into Jo’s oversized jacket, its red lapels pooling around his shoulders like petals. The air smelled of pine needles, ash, and sugar from the charred marshmallows Tsuguera had burnt earlier in his overzealous joy. Someone had managed to find a speaker, and soft, instrumental music hummed in the background — courtesy of Suo, who’d chosen a playlist without vocals because, in his words, “The silence between us is already singing.”
Kiryu was brushing Sakura’s hair with his fingers, smoothing it down every time the wind lifted the black and white strands. His touch was light, reverent. Next to him, Nirei had fallen half-asleep against Sakura’s side, cheek resting just above Sakura’s hip.
Umemiya sat opposite, legs spread wide, arms looped behind his head like he was holding up the stars. His shirt was rumpled and open at the throat, a few faint hickeys still blooming along his collarbone — souvenirs from the chaos earlier. He gave Sakura a small grin and mouthed, You okay?
Sakura nodded.
Tsubaki was handing out warm drinks in mismatched mugs. “Kotoha sent these from Pothos,” he said as he passed Sakura his favorite — a cinnamon-honey blend, still steaming. “She said if you don’t drink it, she’s revoking your café privileges.”
Sakura smiled softly, cradling the mug. “I’m not risking that.”
Tsuguera was attempting to toast marshmallows again — this time supervised by Suo, who guided his hand like a parent teaching a child to write. “Hold it still. No, Tsugu… still. You’re burning the firewood now.”
“I want it crispy!” Tsuguera whined.
“You want it ash,” Suo muttered, but his smile betrayed no real annoyance.
Jo lounged nearby, red nails flicking embers with a stick. “God, I love when you all act like delinquents who stumbled into domesticity. It’s my favorite genre.”
“Genre?” Nirei mumbled sleepily.
Jo leaned over and kissed the crown of his head. “It’s what I call this strange little world we’ve made around Sakura. A collection of strays, saints, and sinners orbiting one soft boy like moths to flame.”
“Stop that,” Sakura muttered, flushing.
But no one did.
Kiryu leaned closer and murmured into his hair, “You saved us all, you know.”
Sakura blinked. “What do you mean?”
Suo answered without looking away from the fire. “Each of us was breaking in ways we didn’t even notice until you showed up. You made it okay to care again. To feel.”
Endo sat a little away, silent, shoulders tense — still carrying the weight of earlier, of the man whose words had dug too deep, whose presence had dragged blood and memory from Sakura’s soul.
Sakura’s eyes found him across the fire.
Endo didn’t speak, but his gaze was anchored to Sakura like a tether, quiet and storming all at once.
Sakura didn’t need to say anything. Not yet.
For now, he turned back to the others, where Nirei was half-dozing again and Tsuguera had finally roasted a perfect marshmallow and was holding it up like a trophy.
Umemiya tossed a blanket over Kiryu’s shoulders, who smiled, unimpressed but pleased. Tsubaki had pulled Jo into his lap like a princess and was tracing lazy hearts into his thigh.
And Suo… Suo was watching them all, a rare softness on his face, the kind that only came out at the end of something long and heavy — when the world started to settle again.
Sakura breathed in, then out.
The fire was still burning. But it wasn’t angry anymore. It was warm. Steady.
Alive.
The night was quiet when Sakura slipped back into his room, the echo of laughter and fire still warm on his skin. His body ached — not with pain, but with something heavier: the weight of eyes that loved him, the hands that had held him all evening, and the storm still coiled tight in Endo’s shoulders when their gazes met across the flames.
Sakura left the door open.
And Endo came.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t speak. He just stepped in with slow, almost reverent steps and shut the door behind him. His presence filled the room like a tide — not overwhelming, but inevitable.
Sakura stood barefoot on the tatami floor, the sleeves of Jo’s oversized jacket slipping from his shoulders. His white and black hair hung loose, mussed from Kiryu’s touch. His eyes shimmered in the low lamp-light, a faint mix of gold and blue.
“You stayed so far,” he whispered.
Endo’s voice was low. “I didn’t want to cross a line.”
“You never have,” Sakura said, stepping closer. “But I want you to. Tonight, I want you to cross it.”
Endo inhaled sharply. “You’re still shaking.”
“I’m still healing,” Sakura corrected softly. “But I’m not broken. Not anymore.”
He reached for Endo’s wrist, guiding his hand up to his chest. Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his heart was beating hard, fast — not with fear, but anticipation.
“I’m not scared of you,” Sakura said, voice trembling but clear. “Not of your strength. Not of your hands. Not of your love.”
Endo’s expression cracked — like something inside him finally split open.
“I think about hurting you all the time,” he confessed. “Not because I want to. But because I could. And I wouldn’t survive that, Sakura. Not you.”
“Then don’t hurt me,” Sakura whispered, sliding his fingers through Endo’s. “Touch me like you want to protect me.”
“I always do.”
Sakura leaned in and kissed him — soft at first, almost hesitant, until Endo kissed back, trembling. Their mouths met again and again, deeper each time, until Sakura was pressed to the wall, Endo’s hands braced on either side of his head, caging him in without pressure.
Sakura kissed him harder.
Pulled him closer.
He bit Endo’s lower lip and felt the shiver that passed through the taller boy. “Don’t hold back.”
“Sakura—”
“I mean it.”
He pulled Endo’s shirt loose from his waistband, hands sliding under the fabric, exploring muscle and scar and warmth. Endo sucked in a breath but didn’t stop him. His own hands were still trembling — not with lust, but restraint. His eyes were searching Sakura’s face like a man walking through a minefield.
“Go fast,” Sakura said. “I want to feel everything.”
“No.”
That one word dropped like a weight between them.
Sakura froze.
Endo kissed him again — slower this time, grounding.
“I’ll do everything you want,” Endo murmured against his lips. “But I’ll do it like it means something. You don’t need to prove anything to me by taking more than you’re ready for. You already let me in — that's enough.”
Sakura’s throat clenched.
He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes wet.
So they moved together, slowly. The jacket slipped off his shoulders. The lights dimmed to just a golden haze. Endo lifted Sakura into his arms and carried him to the futon like something precious, like a vow he intended to keep.
They undressed each other without urgency — hands trembling, lips lingering.
Sakura straddled him, leaned forward, and kissed the line of Endo’s jaw, his throat, the burn mark near his collarbone. He left gentle nips, suckled marks into skin — not just claiming, but remembering.
When Endo finally lay beneath him, breathing hard, hands fisted into the sheets to keep from grabbing too tight — Sakura whispered, “I trust you.”
And when they finally gave in, when skin met skin and heat built into a slow crescendo — Sakura clutched at Endo’s shoulders and felt everything.
It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t fast.
It was raw.
It was surrender and worship and hunger braided into something unspoken.
And when it ended, Sakura curled into Endo’s chest, both of them slick with sweat, breathing like they’d run a thousand miles through each other’s pain.
“I wanted this,” Sakura whispered into the hush.
“I know,” Endo murmured back, pressing a kiss to his hair.
They didn’t say anything more that night.
But Endo didn’t let go.
Not once.
Pothos Café was alive.
The windows were thrown open to the summer wind, the lazy golden sunlight slanting across the dark wood floors. The scent of espresso, vanilla, and sweet cream wafted from the bar, where Kotoha was furiously rearranging the pastry display while muttering under her breath about someone (Jo) leaving lipstick stains on the whipped cream whisk again.
Tsuguera was behind the counter in a too-big apron, arms deep in the dish sink and singing off-key to whatever retro pop song Suo had queued up on the café speaker.
“I said no vocals,” Suo sighed from the corner table, scribbling in a red-covered notebook. “This is assault.”
“IT’S A CLASSIC,” Tsuguera screamed joyfully, waving a sudsy ladle like a weapon.
Kiryu was cleaning Sakura’s glasses again. He always did it without asking — like a ritual. His hands moved with delicate precision as he rubbed the lenses dry with a cloth that, oddly enough, had Kiryu’s initials embroidered on the corner.
Sakura sat at the central window table, framed in warm light, sipping his iced tea as he watched the world move around him.
Jo slid into the seat beside him, chin in his palm. “Are you going to write that poem about us yet?”
“I don’t write poetry.”
“I’ve seen your sketchbook, love. If those aren’t poems drawn in graphite, I’ll eat Tsubaki’s earrings.”
Across the café, Umemiya was helping carry in crates from the alley delivery truck. He waved through the doorway, beaming as sweat clung to his neck. “You okay, angel?”
Sakura gave a little wave back. “Better than okay.”
“Good. You missed a delivery, so I punched a box to open it for you.”
“You what—”
“It was wrapped too tight,” Umemiya grinned.
“I love him,” Suo said. “But he’s a menace.”
“That’s our menace,” Nirei chimed in, emerging from the back with flour on his nose and two freshly baked mini cakes. “Sakura. Taste test.”
Sakura took a fork and bit in — strawberry cream and soft sponge melting on his tongue. He blinked, surprised. “This is amazing.”
Nirei turned visibly red.
“Say it louder,” Jo said. “For the people in the back.”
“He already said it,” Nirei stammered. “Don’t make him—”
Tsubaki waltzed in just then, holding a tray stacked with drinks. “One cappuccino with cinnamon hearts for Kiryu. A sweet Americano for Jo. And a little mug of lavender milk for our dear prince.”
He set Sakura’s cup down last, brushing Sakura’s bangs from his face with two fingers and whispering, “You’re glowing today.”
“He always glows,” Endo said from the far corner, arms crossed but eyes soft.
He hadn’t touched his drink yet. He just kept looking at Sakura, like the boy was something holy.
Sakura met his gaze. And smiled.
Kotoha finally emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “If any of you break my furniture again, I’m serving poison next time.”
“Wait—what furniture broke?” Tsuguera asked immediately.
Kotoha pointed to the faint crack on the corner table, where Jo had dramatically dipped Tsubaki during a dance move last week. “That.”
“It was for art,” Jo defended.
“Then you can artfully replace it,” she replied, smacking his head with a wooden spoon.
Laughter erupted. Someone knocked over a glass. A cat outside meowed in protest.
And through it all — in the center of this blooming chaos — sat Sakura, watching his people move around him like stars orbiting a sun.
He reached for his tea again, brushing his fingers along Kiryu’s, who didn’t let go. Suo leaned in from the other side, whispering something in his ear that made him laugh. Nirei passed him another cake. Jo kissed his knuckles like it was habit. Tsubaki placed a flower behind his ear. Umemiya walked by and ruffled his hair.
And Endo…
Endo didn’t need to move.
Sakura felt him from across the room. A steady warmth. A flame that no longer hurt to touch.
Here, in this café full of color and noise and light — Sakura Haruka was no longer a shadow running from the past.
He was loved. Loudly. Fiercely. Quietly.
Wholly.
And maybe, he thought, as he leaned his head on Kiryu’s shoulder and closed his eyes — maybe this was what it felt like to finally belong.