The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname



His mouth went dry, as if he were suddenly parched.

Saruhiko had seen Misaki without his shirts before, had yanked the collar down himself to see what was going on with the mark of Mikoto’s aura, but this was the first time since they’d reconciled that Misaki had tossed off all the layers aimlessly, complaining of summer heat, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to make dinner.

Saruhiko watched as he had always watched his friend, but there was definitely something different than just “summer” heat making him flushed and thirsty.

“What do you want?” Misaki asked.

Saruhiko shrugged. You.