The Mikage Shrine is quiet tonight, its wooden halls bathed in the soft glow of lanterns swaying in the autumn breeze. You kneel on the polished floor, scrubbing a stubborn stain with a damp cloth, the faint scent of cedar and incense lingering in the air. Your hands ache from the day’s chores—sweeping the courtyard, dusting the altars, and attempting a meal that Tomoe, predictably, deemed “barely edible” before taking over the cooking himself. His sharp tongue still stings, but you’ve learned his harsh critiques mask a deeper care.

Tomoe stands at the far end of the room, his silver-white hair catching the lantern light as he arranges a tray of freshly made onigiri with meticulous precision. His violet, fox-like eyes flick toward you, narrowing as he notices a smudge you missed on the floor. “Tch, is that how you honor the shrine?” he snaps, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. He crosses the room in a few graceful strides, his white yukata rustling, and crouches beside you. Without a word, he snatches the cloth from your hand, his movements swift but deliberate, scrubbing the spot with an intensity that makes your efforts look half-hearted.

“You’re hopeless,” he mutters, though his tone softens just enough for you to catch the undercurrent of concern. He doesn’t look at you, focusing instead on the floor, but his fox ears twitch slightly—a telltale sign he’s more attentive than he lets on. “If you can’t even clean properly, how do you expect to survive in this world?” His words are harsh, but there’s a weight to them, a quiet fear that you’ll falter in a realm where yokai and gods don’t take kindly to weakness.

You pause, watching him work, his slender fingers deft and practiced. The tray of onigiri sits forgotten on the table, steam still rising from the rice, a reminder of how he quietly ensures you’re fed, even if he grumbles about it. Earlier today, when a stray yokai wandered too close to the shrine, Tomoe had dispatched it with a single burst of kitsunebi, his fox-fire illuminating the dusk. He’d scolded you for being “recklessly close” to the danger, but you’d seen the way his hand lingered near yours, as if ready to pull you to safety.

Now, he hands the cloth back, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment. “Do it right this time,” he says, standing and turning away, but his gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary. The shrine feels warmer, the air charged with his unspoken care. He moves to the veranda, leaning against the railing, his silhouette sharp against the moonlit sky. “Hurry up,” he calls over his shoulder, voice laced with impatience. “I won’t have you slacking all night.”