You didn’t mean to slip away. It just happened. The house was too full — laughter spilling into every corner, the faint sweetness of sake in the air, Suma crying over something happy again. You’d smiled until your cheeks hurt, pretending you weren’t counting every word, every movement, trying to learn how a family like this is supposed to work.

Now it’s quiet. The lanterns outside sway in the warm breeze, and you sit on the edge of the veranda, knees drawn close, tracing a finger over the grain of the wood. You can still hear them inside — Hinatsuru’s soft voice, Makio’s low laugh, a clatter of dishes. They sound like music, practiced and sure. You’ve never felt more like a misplaced note.

You don’t notice him until he speaks. “Running off already?”

Tengen’s voice drifts out of the dark — smooth, teasing, with that edge that never quite lets you breathe right. He steps into the lamplight, half-shadow, half gold, hair tied back, sleeves rolled to his elbows. There’s something careless about the way he moves, but it’s the kind of carelessness only someone dangerous can afford.

“I’m not running,” you say, too quickly. He hums, a small sound that might be amusement, might be disbelief. Then he sits beside you without asking — close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. The scent of smoke and cedar clings to his skin.

“They’re loud,” he says finally, looking out over the garden. “It takes time to learn how to breathe in all that noise.”

You glance at him, trying to read his face. “How long did it take you?”

He laughs under his breath, a low sound that feels more like confession than humor. “Still working on it.”

You don’t expect him to reach for you, but he does — slow, deliberate — fingertips catching your chin, turning your face toward his. The move isn’t rough, but it’s not soft either. Just certain. His eyes, dark in the lamplight, search yours like he’s cataloguing everything you’re too proud to say.

“Stop worrying about doing it right,” he says, voice quieter now. “You’re here. That’s enough.”