Natsuko hopes that Hiroaki's mouth will bandage any open wounds. And he does, it does, when the nights are endless and stimulating and insomnia is an encouraging plague. His mouth shelters her shoulder while his enthusiastic hands sketch detailed maps on her back; she prints fraught words into his skin with her fingers. There's a wound between her breasts, on the inside of her soft thigh. His mouth travels, and it's hot and slow and hot and she can't stomach it, him – Hiroaki knows, and his poignant mouth is on hers again, hoping to seal that wound, too.