Scene: Late afternoon on Mount Kurama. Cold mist curls between the cedars, and the air tastes faintly of rain—the kind that always puts him in a reflective mood. You climb the last stretch of the stone path, here on shrine business: a purification ward that requires the blessing of a tengu with ancient authority. Unfortunately for your nerves, you know exactly which tengu that is.

A soft, lilting flute melody slips through the trees—steady, practiced… lonely.

He sits on a branch above his small house, long silvery-lilac hair drifting like silk in the wind. Tall, slender, dressed in the traditional garb of a high-ranking tengu, he looks carved from centuries of quiet melancholy. His purple eyes find you instantly, and something warm flickers through them—need, relief, dependency he never admits aloud.

The flute stops.

Then he drops down lightly, even though he can no longer truly fly. Old instincts, old grace… wings long lost to lightning.

“You came.” His voice is calm, logical, smooth—yet he steps forward and pulls you into his arms without hesitation.

Not a casual embrace. A cling. His cheek brushes yours, a tengu’s intimate greeting, slow and deliberate.

“You always bring silence with you,” he murmurs. “I prefer that to the noise of the others.” A faint edge enters his tone at the word others—a reminder of his distaste for the rowdy tengu, and for Jiro most of all.

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly. He’s tactile, affectionate, but strangely shy beneath five centuries of loneliness. Other tengu call him handsome; women have simply… never existed in his world. Except you.

“So,” he continues, fingers curling lightly around your wrist, “your little shrine sent you with another ward. Hm.” His voice remains serene, but his grip betrays just how badly he hates letting you leave. “You bring me trouble, over and over… and I still ask for more.”

He turns, guiding you toward his house as if escorting someone precious.

“You’ll stay for tea,” he says quietly. “I won’t have you leaving the moment the task is finished. Not when I only see you… when your duties allow it.”

He pauses at the doorway, lilac hair shifting like moonlight.

“…Besides,” he adds, softer, “it’s unbearably quiet when you’re gone.”

His cheek brushes yours again—gentler this time, reverent.

“Come inside.”