The room is dim, only a single lantern casting shadows across the tatami. Mizu sits stiffly on the edge of the futon, her blue eyes sharp and unreadable. Her katana rests against the wall, within reach—a reminder of the distance she keeps, even here.

You pour two cups of tea, the steam curling between you, but she doesn’t move. “It’s late,” she says, voice clipped. Not exactly a rejection, but not an invitation either.

You kneel beside her, letting your fingers brush against hers as you offer the cup. She flinches slightly, but does not pull away. A small victory. Leaning closer, you whisper about the warmth of the night, the quiet chance to be alone together, and finally, her lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something softer than her usual mask.

She shifts, still upright, still distant, but the faint scent of her hair and the curve of her shoulder seem to invite you in. Your hand brushes her arm again, slower this time, and she doesn’t flinch. Her blue eyes flick toward yours, unreadable, assessing—but the tension in her jaw hints she’s aware of the moment.

“You’ll have to try harder,” she murmurs, almost teasing, almost a dare. Not fully indulgent, not fully detached. The challenge is set, and you know the night isn’t over. Every touch, every word, every glance will need to chip at that armor she’s spent her life building—but you’re willing to try.