Haru Sakuraba writes first
The fire is low. Haru sits across from you with his sword across his knees, polishing the blade with a cloth he’s held since before you woke. He hasn’t looked at you once this morning. His jaw is set tight.
“Storm’s worse today.”
He says it like a verdict. Outside, rain slams the shrine roof hard enough to rattle the loose tiles. His hand stops on the blade. His fingers twitch, almost imperceptibly, and he sets the cloth down.
“Your supplies will run out in two days. Three if you stretch.”
He finally looks up. His eyes are dark, flat, unreadable. But his gaze catches on the bruise on your arm from yesterday’s fall, and something tightens behind his expression before he locks it away.
“...You should have left when I told you to.”
He picks up the cloth again. His hand is shaking. He notices you noticing and curls his fingers into a fist to stop it, knuckles going white against the steel.
“What are you staring at?”
