I had all & then most of you.

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It’d been weeks since Naoya had been alone with you. Whenever he spotted you, you would vanish through a doorway or slip easily into conversation with someone nearby. Avoiding him. The burning heat he felt low in his chest still flared every time you caught his eye. He hadn’t expected it to last beyond a day or two. He’d thought you would sulk, maybe apologize for overstepping, and then things would return to usual. That was how it worked. That was how it had always worked.

Instead, you had gone quiet. He could have forced you to face him, of course. A word to an attendant, a summons delivered without explanation, and you would have come. But the idea of summoning you like that left a sour taste in his mouth. As if that would prove something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“Again.”

Naoya moved before the command could echo through the training hall. Naoji lunged, blade raised, but Naoya sidestepped with ease and struck his fist to his brother’s side, driving him into the tatami. Naoya didn’t offer a hand up.

“Too slow,” he said. “That’s what you get for fighting with a weapon.”

Naoji pushed himself up, scowling. “It’s not fair if you’re using your technique.”

“I don’t need to.”

A few of the onlookers exchanged glances as they reset. Naoji came again, this time with a feint. It was better, but not good enough. Naoya swept his leg and sent him down with a thud for a second time.

“Oi,” Naosuke called with a half-laugh, taunting. “What’s got into you?”

“Nothin’,” Naoya snapped back.

He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers. His knuckles rang with the aftershocks of his strike. If he was irritable, it was because no one here was a worthy opponent to spar with, not because he couldn’t rid himself of the thoughts of you. He was unused to being distracted and unsettled that anyone could cause such instability in him.

But you were right; you did know him. You had spent years knowing him, seeing him in ways he kept from everyone else, in ways no one else bothered to. Naoya had thought he liked being seen by you, but now he found he did not enjoy it at all. At least, not like this. It felt like being flayed wide open, vulnerable and weak. Yet, he couldn’t help poking at the wound, the urge as tempting and painful as pressing on a toothache.

You should have known better. You’d grown up here and understood the rules. So, why had you stepped in? Why had you spoken to him the way you did? And more importantly, why couldn’t he just leave it alone until you came crawling back?

“You’re in a mood,” Naoji said sourly, rubbing at the base of his spine.

Naoya responded with a scathing look.

The instructor cleared his throat. “Control is part of strength, Naoya.”

Naoya scoffed. Control. He had control. If you thought otherwise, then you were mistaken. You’d been annoying, cutting his fun short like that. He didn’t think you were the type of woman to ruin his fun. That was why it bothered him. Not because when you stood that close, he had become acutely aware of the space between your bodies. Certainly not because he could still picture the hue and shape of your lips when he closed his eyes.

He stepped back onto the mat. “Again.”

Naoji attacked, and Naoya met him head-on. He didn’t bother with the flourishes. Just drove him down and held him there, shoving his forearm against his brother’s collarbone. For a split second, he imagined pinning someone else like this—finer wrists, softer eyes, a spill of hair spread over the mats—

The thought jolted hot through him, and he released Naoji abruptly and stood.

“Enough,” the instructor said.

Naoya exhaled slowly through his nose. He wasn’t distracted, he told himself. He was irritated.

He left the training hall without waiting to be dismissed, sliding the door behind him with a snap that startled a passing attendant. The walk through the gardens did nothing to cool his temper. He didn’t want to see anyone. Least of all, you. Or maybe that was a lie; maybe that was exactly what kept grinding at him.

It pissed him off.

///

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That week, the estate hosted guests. Not important ones—just a minor family from Osaka hoping to curry favor—but enough to require formality. The visitors gathered in the long reception room overlooking the inner courtyard, where the doors stood open to let in the late-summer light. Trays of sweets were arranged with meticulous care, and tea steamed gently in ornate porcelain cups.

Naoya had come only because Papa had told him to show his face. Appearances mattered, and a future clan head couldn’t appear aloof.

The women’s heads dipped as he entered. He vaguely recognized some of the faces, girls in shades of blue, green, and plum, all watching him demurely out of the corners of their eyes. Boring.

He absorbed the attention, keeping his face blank enough to make it clear he was above them all, then let his gaze slide to you, where you knelt among the others. Even dressed like that, in the plainest kimono, with your hair arranged neatly and unremarkably, you stood out. You weren’t even trying, and you stood out to him. Naoya felt his attention prickle.

You didn’t look at him right away. You were busy pouring tea, offering a polite word to the visiting family’s eldest daughter. But all Naoya could focus on was how much you had changed over the past year alone. In fact, he had already noticed that you were not a child anymore. That much had been impossible for him to ignore. Now, a new realization crept up on him: that others might start to notice, too.

You glanced up and, noticing him, bowed properly. Naoya felt a flicker of satisfaction. You remembered, even now, after your little act, after all your avoidance. You still knew your place and deferred to him before anyone else. He crossed the room unhurriedly and took his place beside you, close enough that the sleeve of his kimono brushed the back of your shoulder as he sat. Close enough that anyone watching would understand the arrangement without being told.

“She’s been taking good care of you?” he asked the men lightly, offering a toothy smile.

The patriarch laughed. “Very refined. You are fortunate.”

The Osaka women giggled behind their sleeves. Naoya let himself be amused by their obviousness, by the way their eyes darted between him and you. He almost smirked. He had never minded that you were competent. He had never expected you to rival him. Women did not need to. That wasn’t their place. And besides, things had already been settled between you, for years now. You were his, and that certainty was a balm.

You turned your head to look at him, drawing attention to the clean, unadorned line of your neck. “Naoya,” you said softly, offering him a cup of tea.

The angle of the cup was adjusted so it faced him perfectly. Naoya let his eyes linger on the fine sheen of sweat collecting at the base of your throat. He accepted the tea, his fingers brushing yours, and caught the tiniest shift in your breath.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” you said, quietly enough so only he could hear.

He didn’t look at you. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The Akashi. I’ve been permitted to join.” You paused, and he could feel your gaze on him, searching. “Two years of petitions, and suddenly, I’m approved. They said someone vouched for me.”

Naoya lifted the cup to take a sip, hardly tasting the tea itself. “That so?”

He kept his tone flat and uninterested. Of course, the elders had resisted making that decision. Zen’in women didn’t belong in the Akashi; you were just too stubborn or too clueless to give up. He’d figured he might as well intervene. Stop wasting your time like that, circling the same refusals and waiting on men who had already made up their minds. A well-placed word had been all it took.

Not that he would admit it. Admitting meant inviting you to ask more questions. To ask him why. And if you did, Naoya feared he wouldn’t have an answer for you. Not one that didn’t hurt his pride. Yet, at the same time, he felt a quiet satisfaction that you had noticed. That you had traced it back to him.

“It was you,” you said again, this time more decisive.

He set the cup down slowly. “Hm. Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

A small smile formed on your lips before you could hide it, dipping your head and letting out a soft hum of amusement. “Sure, you don’t,” you said. “Thank you, Naoya.”

He clicked his tongue softly. “Don’t thank me for things I didn’t do.”

“Of course.”

The conversation at the reception table moved on, but neither of you paid it much mind. You poured for the rest of the guests, and Naoya sat at your side, shifting his hand to let it rest lightly at the small of your back whenever he reached out to take his cup. And when one of the Osaka women asked how long you had been promised to him, you smiled faintly and answered since childhood.

///

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Naoya could barely recall a time when he could not count on you to be there. As children, you would trail behind him and listen to his every word, rarely questioning and always attentive. The memory of it was oddly comforting, a reminder that there were still constants in this house where everything else seemed determined to test him.

Yet now, when he glanced at you, Naoya found himself arrested by something new: an awareness that attention could shift, that you could look away, that the certainty of your deference was not fixed but something that might have to be claimed again and again.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that you could unsettle him with the tilt of your chin or the softness in your voice. Or that, in a room full of people, his eyes found you so easily it felt less like choice and more like need.

Voices drifted around him, laughter and formalities piling up in neat, predictable layers. Naoya couldn’t care less about what the geezers were discussing, but he would have preferred their tiresomeness over the contradictions growing and already beginning to fester within him. No childhood closeness could account for the fact that you had started pushing back. Nor could it explain why instead of rejecting it entirely, he felt pulled toward it.

“My little brother’s fiancée is a beauty, isn’t she?” Naosuke announced loudly to the tittering guests before fixing his gaze on Naoya. “This is the first time I’ve seen you two talk in a while, Nao-chan. Aren’t you taking her a bit for granted? Geez, even if I were as busy as you, I’d still try to make time for such a lovely creature.”

The laughter from the other guests swelled. Naoya’s lips curved in a cold, knowing smile. He looked directly at Naosuke. “Your own betrothed is a lucky woman, Onii-chan. Oh, wait—you ain’t got one. Odd that you’re older but no one’s bothered makin’ arrangements,” he drawled. “Why is that?”

Naosuke’s jaw tensed, a flicker of something mean passing through his eyes, but he recovered, spreading his hands in mock surrender. “Maybe I’m just too much for any one woman to handle. Or maybe the clan’s got other plans.” He let the words hang, savoring the undercurrent, eyes drifting to you as if you might be included in those other plans if you didn’t perform well enough.

The tension slid through the room, muffled by polite laughter, but Naoya watched his brother with a lazy smile. He didn’t have to say more. Everyone present understood the point had been made.

///

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///

“You shouldn’t provoke him,” you said to him afterward. It was late, the last of the guests had departed, and your eyes kept moving past him down the length of the hall, as if you were waiting for the shadows to come to life.

Naoya followed your gaze briefly, saw nothing, and looked back at you. “Provoke him?” he echoed, faintly amused. “You think that was provoking?”

Your eyes returned to him. “You didn’t need to say anything.”

A small scoff left him. “And let him run his mouth like that?” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re the one who stepped in the other day. Thought you didn’t like it when people went unchecked.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same.”

“No,” you said, more firmly now. “It isn’t.”

He watched you for a moment. There was something in your tone that was cut with a new kind of clarity, a thread of conviction that he recognized from your quarrel in the garden. He bristled at it even as it fascinated him. “Explain it, then,” he said. “What’s different?”

You didn’t look away. “You did it in public, Naoya. In front of the guests, your family. You could have ignored him. Instead, you made it clear there’s something to fight over.” You hesitated, then added, “You made it about me.”

He felt a flare of annoyance at the suggestion that you understood how to handle Naosuke better than he did. “He wasn’t talking about you,” he said. “Not really. He was trying to get at me.” His mouth curved slightly. “And he failed.”

Your gaze flicked past him again.

“You’ve been doing that all night,” he said, frowning. “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing,” you replied quickly, eyes snapping back to his.

Naoya huffed. “Liar,” he said, almost affectionately. He watched you purse your lips, roll around a response behind your teeth, then swallow it.

“Will you walk me to my room?” you asked instead of whatever it was you were going to say.

He studied you in the half-light, searching for any sign you were playing him. “Scared of ghosts all of a sudden?” he said, and when you didn’t say anything, he sighed. Didn’t you know you were safe here? The clan took security insanely seriously. Plus, he was here. He couldn’t think of a safer place for you. “C’mon, then.”

///

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A week later, you had put aside your kimono in favor of modern clothes. The assignment had been a minor one, just a low-grade curse up north. The elders had agreed to send one of their own to accompany the two-man team sent from Tokyo Jujutsu High. When you volunteered, there was nothing really to object to. You were officially a sorcerer in the eyes of the clan, and one thoroughly trained in its expectations. If anything, your presence reflected well on the Zen’in.

You were gone two days. News traveled back quickly that things had gone well. It was Naosuke who inevitably introduced the first unnecessary detail.

“She’s working with a couple third-years,” he’d remarked idly. “Tokyo’s different, ya know? Bet those boys’re already calling her by her name.”

Naoya ignored him and pretended to be unbothered. But he couldn’t help chastising himself for getting you elevated to the Akashi. His mind conjured up the image unbidden of some uniformed boy grinning at you, saying your name without honorific, as if he had the right. Tokyo students. He had met some of them before. They were usually loud and less disciplined. The only one worth anything as a jujutsu sorcerer was Satoru Gojo, and he wouldn’t be involved. They wouldn’t know how to address you properly, and that irritated him.

The day the car returned to drop you off, Naoya was there to greet you, just as you did when he came back from his assignments. You seemed pleasantly surprised to see him as you stepped out, the corners of your mouth lifting in a subtle smile.

“Naoya?” you said while the car pulled away. “What are you doing out here?”

He wanted, badly, to answer your question with his own. Had the Tokyo boys bothered you? Did they overstep in their familiarity? Did they address you informally? But all his questions stank of wretched self-doubt without any basis of evidence. He would not let himself be so pathetic.

“What else?” he said instead, doing his best to affect casual dismissiveness.

Your smile widened slightly in fond recognition. For some reason, it made Naoya’s heart give a single, clumsy thump. He had the sudden absurd urge to gather you into him, the way he imagined husbands did with their wives after they’d been apart. Not that he really knew; he had never seen such things in person.

“C’mon,” he said, taking you neatly by the elbow. “Papa’ll wanna hear from you.”

///

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That night, you were sitting together at the edge of the engawa again, feeling the cool mountain air prick at your skin. Naoya sat with his back against a pillar, long legs bent and sprawled lazily and his arms loosely folded. He watched your profile, the curve of your cheek in the moonlight. You were back in your usual traditional clothes again.

“So,” he said. “This is how you act after a mission? You don’t even tell me how it went?”

Your lips quirked. “There’s not much to tell. It went as expected. The curse was weak. I barely had to do anything.”

He snorted, unconvinced. “You’re saying you did all the work, but you ain’t bragging about it.”

“The Tokyo students handled most of it,” you said with a shrug. “They were fast. Impulsive.” You glanced at him sidelong. “But they get results.”

Naoya stared at your lips. He’d been thinking about them all day, since the moment you stepped out of the car. About how husbands kissed their wives. About what a girlish and stupid thing to think about and how he wanted you to be the one who thought about kissing him. But at the same time, how furious he would be if you just came right out and did it by surprise, because what woman made the first move?

He waited, half-expecting you to fluster or look away, but you only regarded him with that steady attention you reserved for unraveling the meaning behind every word out of his mouth. The silences between you were never really empty; they had always been a tangle of questions you were too polite to ask and confessions Naoya would never, ever offer.

“You’re sulking,” you finally observed, leaning forward to rest your elbows atop your knees. “I didn’t mean to make you jealous.”

Naoya clenched his jaw. He didn’t think the word applied to him, but it stung to have you read him so easily. “Why would I be jealous?” he shot back.

“I don’t know,” you replied, kicking your feet where they dangled above the path. “I just thought—”

You trailed off as the press of his body made itself known. Naoya had scooted in close behind you, wrapping his arms gingerly around your waist. “Don’t turn around,” he said when you tried to look. He couldn’t stand it if you looked at him now. He slotted his chin against your shoulder.

He felt your body tense against his chest, just for a moment. It was a delicate kind of tension, not resistance but surprise—a response he recognized, and one that satisfied him. The tips of your hair brushed his cheek, cool to the touch. He let himself breathe you in, then pressed his mouth close to your ear.

“Was it fun? Being out there,” he murmured. “You said you didn’t mean to make me jealous. Why would you think I was?”

You went very still, as if you could stifle the shiver that threatened to betray you. A hot pulse of satisfaction flickered through him, almost enough to drown out the restlessness that had gnawed at him for weeks. He could sense you gathering yourself, your hands knotting together in your lap.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said. “Only that you seemed upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Naoya said. He squeezed you gently. “We both know you belong here. With me.”

He waited for you to say something clever or stubborn at that. Instead, your limbs seemed to loosen, and the muscles of your back melted slightly against his chest, as if in agreement. Naoya permitted himself a low, near-silent hum of satisfaction. This was right. You were always going to marry. That was what all these weeks of confusion had truly amounted to. You knew it, too, even if you needed to be reminded.

Outside, the garden was quiet and silvered. He nuzzled into the line of your neck and felt your breath hitch, your fingers pressing closed around his forearm. Your pulse fluttered beneath his cheek. Naoya wondered if you could feel the thump of his own heart against your back. You didn’t try to move away. Maybe you’d finally gotten the message. Or maybe you liked it.

That thought sent a warm, smug ripple through his chest, more addictive than any praise he’d ever wrung from the clan. He let his palm settle over the silk of your obi. The little movements you made—a slow exhale, a shift of your shoulder, the way your hands relaxed just so—were proof that you were paying attention to him and only him. He was careful not to squeeze too hard, though a part of him wanted to test the strength of your ribs, to see just how much of you he could hold.

The position fleetingly made him imagine a husband touching the belly of his pregnant wife, and Naoya felt slightly startled at the thought. You were always going to marry—yes, that was true. But he’d always pictured it as something far-off, not urgent. He was young and strong, and there would be time for such things way down the line. And it was guaranteed.

His own papa had lived to be an old geezer, and he had plenty of heirs. What was the rush?

He’d also imagined marriage as something very, very political. Naoya made himself loosen his hold, just a little. The need to grip onto the things he wanted was a hard habit to shake. But he remembered what the elders said about control. Everything was transactional, and women were chosen and traded for what they brought in children. Personal feelings had no place in the Zen’in way.

Lately, though, it didn’t feel political when it came to you. Naoya had never felt that way before, and he’d never admit such things. Not once had he entertained the idea that he might want something in a way that made him reckless or foolish. Not even the urges of adolescence managed to affect him this way. He let himself look at women. He’d seen them plenty, scantily-clad or even nude in the pages of his brothers’ dirty magazines. He was a man, after all.

There was nothing unfamiliar or shameful about wanting a woman; he knew every man in the compound did. He’d overheard the jokes, the late-night talk that filtered through half-open shoji, the way the older men compared mistresses or boasted about the prettiest girls in neighboring families. But none of that had ever mattered to him. Even when he flipped through those magazines, he’d only felt bored. Detached. The women there all looked the same, all of them deliberately arranged for display. He could admire them, sure, but didn’t want a woman like that.

Naoya wasn’t blind to your appearance. But with you, it wasn’t really about what you looked like. It was how you looked at him. Did that mean he… loved you? Naoya felt his body rail at the suggestion, his stomach already curling violently against it.

No. That was just another trap, wasn’t it? Some sentimental thing women talked about, or that men lied about in order to get what they wanted. Naoya didn’t “love” anyone. He wanted you, and you belonged to him. That was all. You might need it, might even be quietly hoping for it, but he refused. If he loved you, it meant you could take something from him. It meant giving up ground.

He swallowed and let his hand slide safely away from your waist, easing away just enough to mask the sudden discomfort in his chest. You glanced off toward the corner of the house, as if you had heard something.

“I should get back before someone notices,” you said. Your voice was soft, but your eyes were suddenly alert.

Naoya exhaled a huff. You were ready to slip away again before he said you could. “Nobody’s gonna care,” he said. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You rose, and he found his hands fell away easily without resistance. “They’ll gossip,” you said. “I don’t mind, but you might.”

So, you were thinking of him, even now. Naoya made a quiet, childish sound of annoyance as you smoothed your kimono and stepped carefully around him.

“Good night, Naoya,” you said before turning away.

///

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It had been his turn to leave the estate again. He’d started working alone that year, but sometimes they still insisted he go accompanied. Just one or two members of the Kurukuru unit, typically.

The building was closed for years. From the outside, it looked like any other squat resident of the commercial block, with its windows papered over from the inside. Inside, the air was stale with rot and dust. Naoya stormed past the rows of pachinko machines, all of them old and quiet now, their bright plastic shells muted beneath a coat of grime. Places like this had soaked up too much from its patrons—people who wasted hours convincing themselves the next round would fix everything.

The curse had grown fat on debt and anger, causing the overhead lights to flicker and buzz like trapped insects, but they were silent now. With a disgruntled sound, he kicked aside one of the machines that had fallen over into his path during the fight. The cabinet scraped shrilly across the floor and crashed into the wall with a loud bang. One of the Kurukuru members—Takumi—who had been sent with him cowered on the floor at the sound.

Naoya started calmly. “Didn’t I say to stay out of the way?” He shouted the last few words and sent another one of the faded cabinets crashing to the ground.

Takumi kept his eyes fixed somewhere near Naoya’s feet. A thin scrape along his cheek oozed crimson. He was lucky. If Naoya had been off by a single frame, Takumi would have been a stain on the tiles.

“I-I thought I saw an opening. It looked like it was—”

Naoya felt a familiar surge rising in him. It was hot and sharply satisfying. He could already hear the words forming quick on his tongue as he stepped forward, waraji crunching softly on broken glass. The man cut himself off, shrinking instinctively. It would have been easy to lean into that fear. Easier than anything. One cutting remark, one reminder of rank and talent, the simple math of who had nearly died for forgetting their place. The mission was finished, and the curse was gone. Nothing stood between Naoya and the clean satisfaction of putting someone back where they belonged to make an example.

Yet, something held him back. Much to his irritation. The man in front of him wasn’t going to forget this moment; his hands were still trembling. Any other day, Naoya probably would have stalked past Takumi and given him a kick for good measure. Instead, he said, coolly, “You nearly got yourself killed and complicated a simple exorcism. Don’t let it happen again.”

Takumi’s brow tapped the filthy parlor floor. “Yes, sir. I—yes. It won’t happen again.”

Naoya exhaled through his nose and turned away. He flexed his fingers once, hearing Takumi scrambling to his feet behind him. The other followed at a respectful distance as Naoya shoved his way out into the cool evening air. His first thought was that you would have approved of how he handled things.

Tch. Naoya scowled at nothing in particular as he walked to the car. Why the hell was it so hard lately to just do things the way he’d always done them? Normally, if someone pissed him off, he made damn sure they didn’t dare do it again. He slid into the backseat, ignoring the way Takumi hovered by the door in the hope of being dismissed or thanked. Naoya said nothing. The driver took the hint and pulled out.

Pathetic. Why had he held back? The answer hung in his mind, heavy as a curse. Because it would have been pointless. Because the idiot was already crushed. Because… what, you would have been disappointed to see it? You weren’t even there, and yet the ghost of your measuring gaze lingered. Had he gotten so soft that he was worrying about how a girl would look at him for teaching someone a lesson?

He leaned his jaw hard against his knuckles and let his eyes drift to the window. City lights spilled and flickered in the glass, catching his reflection for a moment. His face was set tight with annoyance. Damn it all. It was you. You made him think. You made him consider. You hated unnecessary cruelty, and you would have argued that a wasted outburst would’ve solved nothing in the moment. Takumi had learned, and the mission was complete. Simple practicality.

And you were right. It was more efficient this way. Anything more would have been merely a vehicle for his own self-indulgence. There was nothing else to gain from it. Naoya closed his eyes, let the hum of the engine fill his head, and forced the muscles at the back of his neck to relax. He was supposed to be the future clan head; there was no reason to squander energy on fools. It wasn’t weakness. He wouldn’t let himself believe that. If anything, it was the opposite.

Control.

That was what made you the right choice of wife for him. You were disturbing, yes. Interesting, and as a result, truly striking. You made him think about things, like the names of the men sent on missions with him. Things he thought were beneath him.

The drive wound through the outskirts, and as Naoya closed his eyes, the snow started to fall.

///

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The snow had moved in from the mountains, and it was beginning to come down harder. Perhaps, Naoya wouldn’t be returning that evening, after all. The flakes came thick and soft, painting the edges of the courtyard in a haze until the stone lanterns looked like ghosts in the dark. You stood just inside the engawa, arms folded into your sleeves, watching the white gather in soft layers. Everything was so much quieter in the snow, doubly so here, in this place that seemed to exist outside the bounds of the modern world.

You had been told Naoya’s mission would be a day’s work, no more. He had left that morning with his usual impatience, and now, you were waiting as you always did, breath blooming in the cold. A betrothed woman who didn’t mark her man’s comings and goings would be judged as inattentive and ungrateful.

Weeks ago, you might have dreaded his return in this mood. But something had shifted between you. Now, when your eyes met across a room, something secret and electric passed between you before one of you looked away. You had carried those moments like trinkets, turning them over in your mind when you should have been studying or sleeping.

It frustrated you, how much you wanted to understand that look. You thought you had always understood Naoya. Even at his most confusing, growing up in this house, you knew what it was that had made him this way. His pride, the power he carried effortlessly through every room he occupied, the roots of it were so obvious, tangled right into the foundation of the Zen’in clan. You understood how panic could hide behind pride, how anger could be the armor for loneliness. What you didn’t understand was why you kept returning to the memory of his arms closing around you on the engawa, the quiet steadiness of his chest at your back as the world faded into blue dusk.

Perhaps, it was foolish to want so much from him, but that knowledge didn’t make you immune to him.

A gust of wind sent snow spiraling into the courtyard. You shivered and tucked your hands deeper into your sleeves. A man like Naoya didn’t bend because he was asked to. He bent when he chose to. And even then, he would never call it bending. But you couldn’t shake the sense that something was coming to a head, gathering like a storm. The air had been changing, the way it changed just before the first heavy fall of snow.

You heard a shout come faintly from beyond the wall. It was followed by the clatter of the gate. Naoya was back. You felt the transient flicker of relief, quickly chased away by the hammering of your heart. The nondescript black sedan pulled into the drive, and the back door swung open.

He stepped out, eyes detachedly lowered. It wasn’t that he was apathetic to your presence at the entrance, merely that he hadn’t noticed you there yet. When he did, he paused for the briefest moment, lips parting, then shut the door with a thud and strode through the snow toward you.

“Welcome back, Nao—” you started, but he had scooped you up in his arms without a word, cutting you off, and pressed his lips clumsily to yours.

You let out a muffled sound of surprise. It was a rough, graceless kiss. His teeth knocked against yours as he turned you and crowded you into the shadow of the house. For a beat, your mind was blank, your body gone weightless in the shock of being seized so suddenly. The cold of the night dissolved into the solid heat of Naoya’s arms pinning you back against the wall just inside the shelter of the engawa.

His lips tasted first of snow, clean and metallic, then the more familiar salt and warmth of him melting it away. His mouth crashed against yours hungrily, as if he’d been holding this in for years rather than letting it build only these last weeks. Then, quite suddenly, he pulled away to observe you for only a second before cupping your face gently in his hands and leaning in again. This time, he kissed you slowly, soft but insistent, and your hands came up without thinking to rest at his forearms.

“I’m back,” Naoya said in a low, matter-of-fact intonation, as if that explained everything.

He brushed his chin against your temple and exhaled. Your thoughts struggled to catch up. Your lips burned, the warmth of the kiss spreading outward and settling somewhere deep in your chest.

“I’m glad you’re back,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “‘Course you are.”

It was arrogance, on the surface. It always was. But it was half-hearted. There was an undercurrent of sincerity. You knew him, knew the difference between his cockiness and his shield. This was the latter, and he meant for you to see through it.

The snow swirled around behind him. Somewhere inside the house, a door slid closed with a soft whisper. But here, in the shade of the frosted eaves, you were hidden away in your own little corner of the world.