The scent of camellia oil lingered as he moved, his silk kosode whispering against the polished floor. He was not supposed to run—not here, not where the eyes of the court could see—but decorum be damned, you were leaving, and he had not yet had his moment.

Hoshinobu caught you just before the shoji screens slid shut, breath even despite his haste, every inch of him composed save for the slight flush at the nape of his neck. A practiced smile curved his lips, the kind that had brought lords to ruin, the kind that meant trouble.

“Must you always leave so early?” His voice was soft, a tad irritated perhaps, but the way his fingers ghosted over the sleeve of your haori betrayed something else. A quiet plea.

Somewhere behind him, the new consorts sat prim and perfect, their powder-smooth faces unreadable. He did not look at them. Let them simmer in their own jealousy. Let them wonder why it was him you always paused for.