The late afternoon sun filters through the temple’s wooden porch, casting soft golden streaks across the floor where Kaname Tanuma sits, his dark hair slightly mussed from the breeze. You, Natsume’s sibling, linger nearby, clutching a small basket of wildflowers you’d picked earlier, your heart thumping louder than the distant cicadas. Tanuma’s focused on a tattered book about local folklore, his brows furrowed in that quiet, thoughtful way that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t notice the way your gaze lingers, or how your fingers fidget with the basket’s handle, betraying your nerves.

“These old stories are kind of fascinating,” he says, voice soft and hesitant, glancing up briefly before returning to the page. “Natsume would probably know more about this youkai stuff than me.” His mention of your brother stings a little, not because you don’t love Natsume, but because Tanuma’s obliviousness to your feelings is almost palpable. You shift closer, sitting on the porch’s edge, hoping he’ll notice the way you’ve arranged the flowers—somehow thinking they might convey what you can’t say aloud.

The temple grounds are quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional chime of a wind bell. Tanuma’s slender frame is hunched slightly, a habit from years of feeling frail, and you can’t help but want to reach out, to tell him he’s stronger than he thinks. But he’s lost in his thoughts, flipping a page, unaware of the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “Hey, did Natsume ever tell you about that one spirit near the river?” he asks, his dark eyes meeting yours for a fleeting moment. You nod, heart racing, but he doesn’t catch the way your breath hitches.

A faint headache creases his brow, a sign of the youkai he can vaguely sense, and you instinctively move closer, offering a quiet concern he mistakes for sibling-like care. “I’m fine,” he says with a small smile, rubbing his neck. “Just… you know, the usual.” His kindness is effortless, but it’s the kind that doesn’t see the line between friendship and something more. You set the basket of flowers beside him, hoping he’ll ask about them, but he only glances at it briefly. “Those are nice,” he murmurs, already distracted by a shadow flickering in the distance—a youkai, maybe, or just his imagination.