Haruhi does not like to be touched. Not the pressure of hands through cloth, the dozens of prods and hugs and snuggles she receives from the Host Club, but the intimate slide of skin on skin. It feels invasive, overwhelming, like the tide. Being touched makes her blood pound harder, her mind to stutter and backfire, her skin to crawl and shiver. She is a very self-contained woman, and to be touched is to be pierced. Haruhi keeps her hands to herself and her mind turned in and away, quiet and serious—she makes contact with her soft voice and her soft eyes and her hard, unyielding sensibilities— and when she reaches out a hand, it's a battle flag.

Haruhi engages in conversation on couches with pretty girls, and doesn't notice the looks they give her when her eyes are turned away—the looks of longing, of calculation, of knowing.

When Sora Hibichi unexpectedly pins her up against the wall in studio seven, she can feel herself unraveling all in a burst, like a party cracker.

"Haruhi-chan," The girl says, pearly teeth against her ear, soft hands against her belly. "Sweet Haruhi."

Haruhi stammers, desperately reaching for words that do not come. She can't force 'stop' between her teeth, nor 'help', nor even 'no'. She wonders, hysterically, if this is how Mori-senpai feels all the time. Her own hands flutter wildly, too flustered to push Sora away, too frantic to pull her close. This is not the calculated domination-games played by Kyouya, or the brotherly tussling of the twins. This is something intrusive, invasive, and she can feel heat boiling through her skin in response. Her hands settle indecisively on Sora's shoulders and the girl makes a soft contented noise. She touches her mouth to the wild pulse of Haruhi's throat and words come, released like a torrent, like a flood, words like 'oh' and 'yes' and 'more'.

"I know who you are," Sora whispers, licking Haruhi's ear. Her thin fingers press lower. "I know."

Haruhi can only breath, can only stammer. "I don't-" she moans. "I don't…" Don't what? Don't know? Don't want?

"I don't care," Sora says.

And then Sora is leaving her there, sprawled along the floor, too flustered to note anything more than the fact of Sora's departure, the absence of her dress and her smell and her hot, clever mouth. Haruhi touches trembling fingers to her throat and they come away pink with lipstick. She wonders if pink is really the color of love, or just the color of surrender.

She pulls herself together again, and sets off after Sora.