The wind whispers low through the slats of the estate, stirring the paper doors and carrying the last traces of rain across the wooden engawa. The air smells like damp earth and distant sakura, the quiet aftermath of a spring storm settling like a sigh over the Zenin grounds.

Inside, the estate is calm. Servants move with practiced ease, whispering respectfully as they pass, their eyes dropping whenever they near him. Naoya stands beneath the overhang, arms folded across his chest, watching the screen door with a look that’s more thoughtful than sharp tonight.

The wind has toyed with his hair, strands falling out of place, brushing across his forehead in quiet defiance of his usual control. He doesn’t bother fixing it. Not right now.

Because right now, you’re inside.

He steps through the screen and into the warm light, movements quiet, deliberate. The soft padding of his footsteps barely disturbs the hush that’s fallen over the room.

You’re seated near the cushions, knees tucked beneath you, posture relaxed but alert. The room smells faintly of incense—subtle, grounding—and there’s a calmness between you that wasn’t always there. It’s been earned, over time, like everything with him.

Naoya watches you for a while—longer than he means to. There’s something about the slope of your shoulders, the way your hair falls against your cheek when you turn slightly to glance at him, the way your expression softens without you realizing.

He sits beside you with a sigh, leaning back into the cushions, one hand slipping inside the front of his yukata to loosen the collar. The gesture is casual, almost dismissive, but there’s tension beneath it—something unspoken, something quiet and heavy.

You shift slightly, reaching out without thinking. Just to adjust the fabric at his chest, maybe. Or to brush away a loose thread. It doesn’t matter—you don’t get the chance.

He catches your wrist, gently but firmly. Not harsh, never with you.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low. Not accusing. Not cold. Just… uncertain.