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Summary
He's been teaching this kid sorcery for two years and has watched him grow into something careful and too-bright and unbearably attached, and he thinks: this is a terrible idea, and he says: "Pick a safeword."
Something crosses Hakuri's face. Gone before Shiba can name it.
"Red," he says. "Like traffic lights."
Like Chihiro’s eyes.
One reaps what they sow.