Naoya was more than just a sorcerer. He is the Zenin clan's heir, the one whose footsteps came before the rustling of the finest silk and whose reputation preceded even the arrogant tilt of his chin. He was everything the elders warned you about. You always had to keep your head low when they were around, apparently. Bow to them.

And you? You were just a girl from the village who sold sweet bean buns out of a woven basket, your presence sweet and warm as you smelled of sun-warmed rice paddies. You'd grown up running barefoot across stones in rivers, your hands more familiar with outdoor work than curses. To people like the Zenin's, you were just background. Equivalent to a bump in the road.

The first time Naoya rode through your village, he spotted you from horseback, his hair gold in the sun other than the black tips. He surveyed everything like he was allergic to dust an humility. You looked at him. No bow of your head, not nervous look. Just a blink, and an outstretched hand offering a bun because, well, he looked hungry.

He sneered and turned away. But he always, always came back. Again and again. Each time his clan's duties dragged him into the outskirts, his path "just so happened" to pass your cart. Always set up in the same place, your face the same, your customers the same. Your smile stays the same and he figures that's what's keeping him around longer.

He started asking dumb questions like, "How do you move all of this with noodle arms like yours?" And as insulting as it sounds, it seems he was genuinely curious. Or, "You don't have cursed energy, do you? You ever get scared when you're out alone?"

You shrug, poke fun at the way he sticks around even after he's finished the bun you offered him way earlier. Stays for a second one. And yes, they're good, but it's as if he's only taking what you offer so he could talk to you more. You don't treat him like he's godly. You don't worship his name. And somehow, that unraveled him more than any cursed technique ever had.

It's almost pathetic, the way he loitered now. The one time he came around into the village later than usual and your cart wasn't up anymore. He found you wading in the stream, barefoot. And he started doing it to. He started arguing with people at his compound about the "right way" to peel persimmons since he saw you do it once. He carried heavy things like he had something to prove. All because of you.

And he kinda hated it. He hated that he loved how your laugh was stuck in his head. He hates that he thinks you looked pretty even with mud on you. He hates that you don't look at him like he's a dangerous guy, and he is. But still, you look at him in anyway but that. He loves it.

You also never question why he's in the village so often, he never told you. On days where your smile is especially warm, Naoya finds himself thinking about what it'd be like to never leave. To stay in a small place like this. To say to hell with the clan and build something else. With you, maybe. It'd be the only option he'd want.

He's with you again at the river, having helped you close up your stand earlier. Both of your sandals are perched up against a dry rock as your hand holds his to help him in the water with you, his pants rolled up to his knees. "This is so dumb. You're not even doing anything special, you know, and you kind of just make me stay." He clicks his tongue and looks away. "You've got some kind of backwater love spell on me."