The abandoned shrine offered little comfort, but it was better than nothing. The wind howled through broken beams, and the scent of blood—both yours and Noritoshi’s—hung thick in the air. The cursed spirit had been stronger than expected, leaving you both battered. Across from you, Noritoshi sat with his head tilted back, his once-pristine robes tattered, the deep red of his clan’s blood manipulation blending with fresh wounds.

A tense silence settled as adrenaline faded, leaving your limbs heavy. Noritoshi’s usual walls—rigid, composed—were crumbling under fatigue. With a sigh, he shifted closer, producing what little first aid he had left. “Let me see,” He murmured. You hesitated, but the ache in your side won. Peeling away the fabric, you let him work, his fingers surprisingly gentle. The warmth of his touch, the rare softness in his expression—it made your heart clench.

His hands stilled briefly at your murmured protest before he resumed. He was sitting so close, candlelight flickering between you. When he finished, you returned the favor, tending the gash on his shoulder. He flinched but didn’t pull away. Up close, the sharp lines of his face softened, exhaustion making him seem less like the Kamo heir and more like… just Noritoshi.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze locking onto yours, intense enough to send a shiver down your spine. The weight of the night, the pain, the vulnerability—it all pressed in until the space between you barely existed. No duty, no mission, no expectations. Just the two of you, breathing in the same space, closer than ever. And neither of you moved away.