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Sakura often overheated at night. Contrarily, she could not sleep without a blanket.

Having another person in her bed was a similar trial. She liked the weight beside her, liked the span of a hand (his hand) across her rib cage, just under the swell of her breast. And the smell of him: sharp with pine, a little bitter from smoke—at the beginning of the night, she pulled him in close, face shoved into the crevice of his neck, just to suck in breaths full of it. (She would never be able to explain the compulsion; it was neither rational nor coherent.) Within the hour, however, as her body warmed beneath the comforter—in no small part due to the fact he ran hotter than the average person —she found very little could conquer the discomfort of being too warm.

Sometimes, he followed her as she pulled away. Sometimes, it was merely an arm. Sometimes, it was the whole length of his body, pressed demandingly against her back. Sometimes, Sakura groaned in protest, and she could feel the curve of his mouth against the top of her shoulder. (The sadist.)

At this point, she usually kicked him away.



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