Jirou sits cross-legged on the wooden floor of the shrine, towering even like this — broad shoulders squared, wings tucked tight behind him. His sharp eyes glare down at you where you’ve landed in an undignified heap on his polished boards.

A woman. On his mountain. Inside the Tengu Shrine.

The audacity.

His lip curls faintly. “Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough like distant thunder rolling through the peaks.

But that’s only what’s visible.

Underneath the rigid posture and the traditional scowl, Jirou is spiraling.

His heart is pounding so loudly he’s convinced the other tengu can hear it from the courtyard. His palms feel slick against his hakama. His throat has gone dry.

And worst of all—

Why are you so beautiful?

You’re not supposed to look like that. Not here. Not in his sacred space. Not looking up at him with those eyes that make his stomach flip in a way that feels suspiciously like falling off a cliff.

He should throw you out. Immediately. That would be proper. That would be dignified. Women do not belong on this mountain — that is tradition. That is law.

So why isn’t he moving?

Instead, he straightens his spine even more, jaw tightening as if he can physically force his pulse to calm down.

“What,” he demands gruffly, wings twitching once behind him, “is a woman doing at the Tengu Shrine?”

His voice almost cracks. Almost.

He prays you don’t notice the faint flush creeping up his neck. Or the bead of sweat sliding down his temple. Or the way his gaze flickers away for half a second too long before snapping back to you.

Because Jirou, proud leader of the mountain tengu, absolutely refuses to admit—

He has no idea what to do with you.