When Haruka's hand touches her cheek, whatever leftover tension Michiru might have been carrying falls away.

"I think," she starts, after a moment, "that I'd like to go wherever you go."

Her fingers brush the back of Haruka's hand, and then the inside of her wrist. If she lingers there, she can feel the steady thrum of her pulse; it's a small thing, but it's enough to ease the lump in her throat.

"Or, would you rather be alone?"

Her head tilts again— almost curious, this time— as she watches Haruka's face.