The Promised Revenge [Manjiro Sano]

33

You didn't feel cold that morning.

No nightmare waking you up in a cold sweat.

No whispers causing an eerie racket in your head.

Instead, only a gentle warmth wrapped around you, a soothing pulse like a lullaby beating in your ears.

It was such an odd but familiar cozy feeling, a sensation of comfort that you wanted to remain in, but also a forbidden pleasure you despised yourself for enjoying.

You snugged yourself in it as the warmness pulled you closer, making you one with it. You could hear your heart pounding with each beat, each second feeling like an eternity, as the world around you gradually vanished with all the anguish it had wrought.

Slow, steady, calming heartbeats...

You'd heard those heartbeats before, they pulled you out of a darkness you were starting to drown in.

You'd felt that heat before, it protected you from the bitter cold of undeniable loneliness.

And the second you recognized them, your eyes perked up, knowing who it belonged to.

You looked up, your eyes falling on his gaze. He was holding you, his arms wrapped around you tugging you tightly. His head rested on the pillow, while yours was comfortably on his chest, as you lay side by side on the bed.

Manjiro was holding you.

You were on Manjiro's chest.

The Manjiro Sano.

What the fuck?

His face was close. So close you could feel his breath on your nose. And all it brought you, was the memory of a mistake you had made and regretted yourself for existing after it.

You couldn't remember much of what happened after you pulled Mikey into a kiss just to get him to let go of you that night, only vivid images of how you fell on his shoulders and then asleep on his back were in your head.

However, the memory of that kiss was sufficient for you to swiftly move your arm, jabbing your elbow into his stomach, hard enough to force him awake with a loud cough.

"What are you doing on my bed?!" you shouted, watching him groan in pain and fall to the ground, his arms around his stomach.

"Good morning to you too..." he spoke, holding his breath.

"Am I supposed to see your face first thing each morning? Don't you have your own room or something?" you complained, looking away, too flustered by the memory to meet him in the eye.

"You were having a nightmare last night and..." he started, finally letting go of the breath he had taken earlier. "God, too much strength for someone who just woke up."

"Never sneak up on me again," you warned, flashing your eyes at him and getting up from the bed. "Especially not my bed. It's creepy!"

"I didn't do it on purpose. And hey, no feet on the-," before he could finish his sentence, you were already out the door, unbothered by his calls that got him to feel the pain of your attack and fall on the ground a second time wailing loudly.

**

Emma loved doing housework.

From when she was young, she had always been considered strange by her peers for her penchant for such an activity. However, she never let the derisive comments from her friends and classmates bother her.

She delighted in cooking for her cherished relatives, cleaning her home, and washing anything dirty that she came across, sure that the joy she found in these activities would never fade.