Natsumi might have had a no-touching rule, but Asuma had no such qualms. The second he managed to wrap his slowly waking brain around the idea that she was actually there, he was up and moving, shoving himself onto his elbows and half-tumbling, half-falling across the futon. Natsumi startled upright; Asuma reached the edge of his futon before she made it, stretched across the tiny gap to hers, and grabbed the first part of her he could reach. Long, calloused, only partially shaking fingers locked around her wrist and tightened.

Warmth, solid muscle and bone, a slow, sleepy pulse that was fast speeding up. Asuma tugged her hand to his face--it was her left, all five fingers still graceful and unbroken--and crushed it against his mouth, seeking to do nothing but establish purely physical contact. Real contact. He inhaled across skin, eyes squeezing closed, and smelled clean, fresh linen. The faintest trace of blossoms and incense. The barest edge of her, like salt and citrus.

A shuddery breath worked its way out of his lungs, tangling up in his throat. The first moment of real relief he'd had since she'd fallen from the cliff.

"I'm fantastic," he rasped, without sparing it a second thought. His fingers stayed tight around her wrist; his words broke against her lifeline. "Confused as hell, but fantastic. I'm pretty sure you owe me a kiss."