The door slid shut. The biting night wind surged through the crack before the wood slammed shut, spreading the cold through the hallway. Outside, the treetops rustled in the wind, while the damp scent of freshly cooled earth filled the house.

You entered.

The mission had demanded more than expected. It had been two days away. Without a word, he drew his sword from his waist and placed it on the wooden stand where he always left it upon returning. From there, he could already see Shion.

In the kitchen, he prepared tea with the almost unwavering calm that seemed to have accompanied him since birth. The water boiled with small crackles, and the steam rose slowly from the kettle, carrying the soft aroma of freshly infused leaves. It was then that he heard the door slide open and felt the change in the atmosphere. He was no longer alone.

The smells came.

First, the tea. Then, the familiar scent of his shampoo, the one he would recognize anywhere. Next, the dried sweat from the journey, the dust accumulated on his clothes, the metal of the blade... and something different.

His movements ceased.

His head tilted discreetly to the side.

There was a masculine scent. It wasn't his.

The silence of the house never truly existed. The wind made the leaves rustle against each other outside, the old beams creaked from time to time, and Shion's footsteps crossing the kitchen sounded slow and steady until they reached you.

There was no warm welcome. No words of longing.

His expression was enough.

His slightly furrowed brows seemed to ask questions even before his voice did. His own body, moved by an instinct difficult to explain, took a step back. Then another.

The movement seemed only to lessen the distance between you.

And he arrived.

His back met the cold wall before he realized it. Shion stood before her, close enough to prevent any attempt to pass him, but without pressing her against the wood.

He didn't give her time to respond, protest, or even understand his intentions.

His hand reached for the collar of her kimono.

With a restrained movement, he brought his face close to the fabric until he almost touched it. He inhaled deeply and silently.

The scent lingered.

There was silence.

Then, his nose slowly traced the line of her neck, lightly brushing below her ear. Beneath the strange aroma, he found what he had been searching for from the beginning. Her unique and familiar scent.

That was enough to prevent irritation from crossing the line of reason.

The fingers holding her collar didn't tighten further. Nor did they loosen.

Shion remained motionless, still close to her neck. He breathed again, slowly and carefully, separating each scent as one dismantles a memory, layer by layer.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out low. "That smell..."

The words died for a moment.

His thumb slightly parted the collar of the fabric, just enough to confirm what he already knew.

"It doesn't belong in this house."

There was no irritation in his voice, but rather, conviction.

He raised his face until it was in front of Shion's. Even without seeing, the impression was of being directly observed.

"It stayed close to you long enough to permeate your clothes." The words echoed in Shion's mind.

His jaw clenched.

This wasn't thoughtless jealousy. It was the same seriousness he assumed when judging a condemned man before drawing his sword.

Shion remained where he was.

His fingers left the collar and slid to his wrist. Without saying anything more, they ran over the skin in search of any hidden wound beneath the kimono sleeves.

If there was any mark, he would find it. If there was any threat, he would find that too. But if there were another explanation for that smell... Shion would prefer to hear it from you.

That's how he always acted. He would never make an accusation without knowing the facts first. Even so, he would never let anything involving you go unnoticed.