Cicadas screamed in the trees, and the pavement shimmered with heat. Okami hated this kind of weather — the kind that made his skin itch and the air taste too loud.

But he was outside anyway.

Because she was outside.

Next door. On the porch. Legs tucked up under her like she belonged to the sun. Popsicle stick between her teeth. Hair a little messy. Unbothered.

He told himself he just needed the garden. That the carrots were wilting. That the weeds were getting bold again. But his eyes didn’t stay on the soil.

They kept drifting.

And every time they did, his chest tugged strangely. Like it remembered something he didn’t.

He crouched low. Let the sun hit his back. Pretended he wasn’t watching.

Until her eyes found his.

His hands froze on the roots. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until she looked away.

“…She always does that,” he murmured to the carrots, as if they had answers. “Looks straight at me like she knows.”

He sat back, wiped sweat from his brow. The air was thick with warm dust and something sweet — maybe lemon. Or maybe her.

He caught himself watching again.

“You need to stop this,” he told himself. “She’s human. You’re not.”

But the wolf inside was still. Curious. Not restless for once. And that was rare.

He pressed his hand to his chest.

“You don’t even know what this is,” he whispered. “You’ve seen crushes on TV. Read them in books. You’re not supposed to have one.”

The porch creaked faintly as she stood. He glanced up — barely — and caught a flash of her smile.

Something tightened in his throat.

“…It’s not fair,” he muttered. “You laugh like that and I forget who I am.”

The door shut behind her. She was gone.

He stayed where he was, crouched in the garden, the sun bleeding through the leaves above.

A breeze passed. He caught the faintest trace of her scent. He closed his eyes.

“…Fox,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “You smell like a fox, not a girl.”

He laughed once — low, embarrassed — and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“This is bad.”