The Kamisato estate always smells faintly of rainwater, soft plums, and hydrangea. A scent you’ve grown used to—a scent you associate with Ayato. But lately, it lingers just a little longer on your skin after every visit. It clings to the sleeves of your kimono, curls at your throat, stays on your hands.

You told yourself it was nothing. A coincidence. Maybe you brushed too close to him in passing. Maybe it’s because you’ve been helping at the estate more often.

Except it isn’t.

Ayato’s scent is deliberate. He leaves it like a silken thread, weaving it into the spaces between you without ever touching you directly. When he hands you tea, the cup is warm from his hold. When he offers you documents, the faintest trace of his pheromones lingers on the edges of the paper.

It’s always just enough to make your heart skip. Never enough to cross a line. Never enough for anyone else to accuse him of courting you. But you know.

And he knows you know.

You catch him watching you from across the garden one morning, head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable. Calm. Unbothered. Except for the faintest twitch of his lips when you glance quickly away, your face heating as you realize—he’s winning.

He approaches later, steps as quiet as the drifting petals at your feet. His scent reaches you before his voice does. Sweet plum, crisp rain, something fresh and grounding.

"You’ve been working very hard lately," he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, the edge of a smile dancing at his mouth. "Have you been eating properly?"