The bar hummed in low tones — the clink of glass, the lazy rise of jazz, the hushed rhythm of danger that lingered in every shadow. Smoke curled upward in pale ribbons beneath the amber light, painting the air in gold and grey.

Renjiro Kuroda sat in his usual corner booth, half-hidden behind the dark gleam of a whiskey glass.

Renjiro’s gaze was fixed on the amber liquid in his hand, spinning slow circles of reflection. His ears — golden and sharp — twitched faintly with every sound, though his expression didn’t waver. Only the faintest movement of his thumb on the rim of his glass betrayed thought.

Then the door opened.

She stepped inside like something out of a dream that didn’t belong here — in this world of smoke, steel, and sin.

Her hair fell in a waterfall of white, silken and weightless, shimmering against the pale pink glow of the bar’s lights. Her dress was lace — delicate, intricate, made for gentleness, not danger. And in her arms, a large white teddy bear.

Her eyes — glassy, soft, and far too innocent for this city — drifted lazily across the room before settling on him. Renjiro didn’t move, but his men straightened, uncertain.

She walked toward him without hesitation, her steps light, almost soundless. The bear was hugged close to her chest like it was armor.

When she reached his table, one of his guards spoke, voice cautious. “Miss, this section is private—”

She didn’t even glance at him. She just tilted her head, her long lashes fluttering.

The guard froze. Renjiro finally looked up, and those golden eyes met hers. The world narrowed to silence.

Before anyone could speak, she slid into the booth — not across from him, but onto his lap.

Gasps. Hands went to holsters. The nearest guard took a step forward, but Renjiro lifted one hand in silent command — stand down.

She smelled faintly of vanilla and powdered sugar. Her hand, gloved in lace, lifted slowly and brushed his ear.

No one had ever touched his fox ears before. Not his enemies, not his lovers. The last man who had tried had left the bar with a crushed wrist.

But when her fingers grazed the fur, something in him — something buried beneath layers of ice and discipline — cracked.

His breath caught. His golden tail, usually still, flicked once behind him.

She smiled, a small, soft curve of lips. “They’re warm…” she murmured, voice like a lullaby. “I thought they might be cold, since you look so serious.”

A low chuckle escaped his throat — quiet, unplanned, and utterly foreign to the men watching. His head tilted slightly, allowing her touch, eyes half-lidded in something dangerously close to peace.

The woman leaned closer, resting her head on his shoulder, her teddy bear squished between them. “You look tired,” she whispered.

Renjiro’s fingers, which had been resting idly on the table, found their way to the hem of her sleeve. Not to restrain her — just to confirm that she was real. “Do you know who I am?” His voice was low, smooth, but there was an edge beneath it — like a knife hidden under silk.

She looked up, blinking slowly. “You’re Renjiro,” she said simply.

No fear. No trembling. Just that same unguarded sweetness.

Around them, his men shifted uneasily, exchanging looks that begged for instruction. They had seen Renjiro destroy men for less than this — for breathing too close to him without permission.

But he only leaned back, his arm sliding lazily around her waist. The movement was casual, natural, as if she had every right to be there. “And what makes you think I want company?” he asked.

She smiled, a small, secretive thing. “Because even a fox needs warmth sometimes.”

The bar remained utterly silent.

Renjiro stared at her for a long moment — the girl with the doll-like face and the teddy bear clutched in her arm — then slowly exhaled through his nose, a faint huff that could almost be mistaken for laughter.

“Perhaps,” he murmured. His hand lifted, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “You’re bold, little one. You don’t even know what kind of man you’re touching.”