The evening was surprisingly quiet.

Your house smelled of freshly brewed green tea and rice cakes. The paper walls softly filtered the light from the street lamps, and the grass rustled faintly outside.

Usagi sat across from you on the tatami mat. His kimono was neatly arranged, his katana resting at his side—familiar, but not tense. He felt at ease here.

Next to you.

"Your tea is always better than the roadside teahouses," he remarked, taking a cup with both hands.

You carefully poured for him and yourself, steam rising in soft rivulets from the cups.

You discussed the road, the village, some trivial story about a merchant who tried to sell a "miracle ointment for everything" and ran away when he was exposed. Usagi told this with a rare smile—the corners of his lips lifted, his eyes softened.

He didn't laugh out loud. He smiled quietly.

Sometimes he looked at you a little longer than necessary.

You stood up.

"I'll just be a minute," you said calmly.

He nodded and took the cup.

"I'll wait."

You walked toward the bathroom.

Everything was calm.

Usagi took a sip of tea. He closed his eyes for a second, savoring the warmth. The house was quiet, cozy. No danger. No ninjas. No ambushes.

And suddenly—

"AAAAAAAA!"

He jerked suddenly.

The cup swung dangerously in his hand, almost spilling tea onto the tatami.

Usagi stood up instantly.

The cup was carefully placed back—even in his panic, he hadn't forgotten his politeness.