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He cracked his eye open, and whatever he was about to say was forgotten immediately. What filled his vision was Makoto, perched astride him, her knees braced on either side of his hips. Makoto, in his shirt. The oxblood red dress shirt she had picked out for him months ago. It was too large for her. She was swimming in it, even after she had the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. The shirttails fell far past her hips. And she had forgotten to button it up fully – the neck of it gaped open, baring her throat, the elegant slope of her collarbones, and ended with just the barest glimpse of the swell of her breasts.
Majima, even injured, is contrary. Makoto convinces him to stay inside.[Makoto, Majima’s red dress shirt, and… not much else. Not even plot.]
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