He stroked me and I shuddered into him. I reached for his belt. He took my hand with his free one, held it in place on the bench. My left hand still held his Reforging—I had not wanted to bleed it out yet. My mind briefly wandered to the work I still had to complete, the pencils I needed to Reforge, all the stories to which I had grown numb. He teased a finger below my underwear, pulling the fabric to the side, and all those stray thoughts disappeared.

I pressed harder into him. His finger remained an obstacle between us. It moved slowly, lazily, tracing corners not even I had explored, slick. Then it slid right into me. I shuddered, again, a soft moan against his neck. I could feel his smile. His finger continued to explore, to thrust. My left hand protested weakly against his, though his grip was firm. I wanted more. I even told him so. He quieted me with a laugh, traced his lips over my neck, and that sent the first wave through me.

It was a wonder to feel this way. My body had only produced pain before—words bleeding out on the page, knives to skin, monthly blood, the helplessness of wartime—and to now feel this glow, this euphoria. I bucked against him, barely registered his hand trying to keep up with my movement. I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut as he sent wave after wave through me until I finally fell against his chest.

For a moment, right as I thought I was coming to my senses, the world disappeared. Not even Torou was there, or at least, not the version of him that should have been. Instead, I experienced the silent and studious Torou, the one who smiled at his mathematics, and though I had no hope of understanding his numbers and logic, something about his posture, his warmth, made me want to try regardless. It was like I had Reforged a more vivid version of his pencil heart—and I realized that was exactly what had happened.

“Hey.” His voice came from a distance. “Yun? You still there?”

I was back at the pencil company, still sitting on top of him. His hand brushing my cheek, so startlingly intimate that I recoiled even when I didn’t want to, not really.

“Are you alright?” he asked, full of concern.

I scrambled off him and rolled up my sleeve, too caught in the moment to worry he might see my scar. But it didn’t matter. The dark glow that his words had formed on my skin and that I had privately enjoyed these last weeks, was gone. The phoenix was barely visible, pale as it would have been if I had bled out his words. His story was lost to the world, as you had said.

“Sorry,” I said quickly, trying to understand. “I’m okay.”