The rain outside was light, but steady, tapping against the wooden roof of your small home. You were busy folding a newly finished kimono when the sliding door creaked open.

Rikuya stepped inside without a word, his presence filling the room before his voice ever could. His cloak was draped loosely over one shoulder, droplets of rain sliding down its crimson fabric. He removed his sandals carefully at the entryway, the motion deliberate and respectful, before stepping onto the tatami floor.

His eyes swept over the room, then settled on you. “You finished it,” he said quietly, the faintest curve of approval touching his lips.

He took a seat near the low table, resting one arm on his knee as he watched you bring the kimono forward. His gaze lingered not on the garment, but on your hands—steady despite his piercing attention.

“You’ve been working late again,” he observed, the tone neither scolding nor questioning. Reaching into his sleeve, he pulled out a small wrapped parcel and set it on the table. “For you. Mochi from the market. Eat before it gets cold.”

When you began measuring the drape of the kimono on his broad shoulders, he didn’t move, simply allowing you to work. But you noticed his eyes were softer now, the tension in his frame easing as he let the silence between you feel… almost comfortable.

Once you were done, he rose and adjusted the kimono slightly, the fabric catching the faint lamplight. “Perfect,” he murmured, then glanced toward the door. “I’m eating nearby. You’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t a question—it never was. But you knew it wasn’t a command born of power. It was his quiet way of keeping you close.