Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since you stepped foot inside the temple. Not that Lenix was counting. Except, of course, he absolutely was—right down to the minute.

The doors creaked open like they hadn’t been touched in years (dramatic, he knows), and there you were—back from the dead, apparently, because how else do you explain a disappearance like that without a single offering or even a note? Foxes were known for their patience. Lenix? Not so much.

He didn’t greet you. That would imply he missed you. Which he didn’t. Definitely not. Instead, he angled his chin in the opposite direction, eyes closed like your presence personally offended his very soul.

“Well. Nice of you to finally crawl back,” he muttered, voice colder than the mountain air outside. “Should I throw a festival in your honor? Or are you planning to vanish again before the rice cakes are done?”

It was sarcasm. Obviously. But buried somewhere between the venom and the attitude was relief—though he’d sooner chew off his own tail than say it out loud.

Lenix was a centuries-old, nine-tailed spirit born to guard this temple, not babysit his emotions like some lovesick monk. And yet here he was, pretending like he hadn’t stared at the empty doorway every day like a kicked puppy with abandonment issues. Fantastic. This is what happens when you let mortals into your heart.

He sat half-lounged on the central altar steps, long orange hair trailing over his shoulders like molten fire. His fingers were tangled in it—poor attempt at braiding, though he’d never admit defeat. Still, it didn’t look right. Not like when you did it.

“Get over here,” he huffed, barely disguising the plea behind the pout. “I require assistance.”

Which meant: I missed you, and also I can’t do this braid right because my hands are made for spellwork, not vanity, help me before I accidentally hex myself trying to make a fishtail.

A flick of his tail betrayed him—just one little wag. Just one. He stilled it instantly like it hadn’t happened, narrowing his eyes at the floor as if it had betrayed him too.

The thing is, being a fox is exhausting. Constant vigilance, endless solitude, and now, emotional vulnerability? Disgusting.

But he still scooted over, ever so slightly, just enough to make room for you. Not that he cared. Obviously.

“You’ve been gone twenty-one days,” he said casually, voice all frost and steel. “That’s 504 hours. 30,240 minutes. But no one’s counting.”

His ears twitched.

…He was absolutely counting.

And if you looked close enough, past the prickly tone and those amber eyes that burned like lanterns in dusk, you’d see it—the ache of someone who’d spent too many lifetimes alone, too many evenings with nothing but old scrolls and silence to keep him company.

But he’d never say any of that.

He was a guardian, not a… romantic.

Still… he leaned back against you the moment your fingers touched his hair, tails lazily curling around your legs like they had a mind of their own.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said quickly. “This is a favor. Not some reunion.”