You were, to Mizu, nothing short of a nuisance. A hindrance that served no tactical purpose. But let's be honest, a swordsman carrying a lifelong secret and an scorching rage wasn't exactly a picture of serene focus either. You were an unwanted snag on the thread of her life, and somehow, you were still here.

Your movements were swift and sure despite the hazed-white of your eyes remaining shut or merely staring past the tangible world. No, the fault was not your sight; the fault was your feeling. The way you registered the slightest shift in air, the direction of a whispered word, and, most damnably, her presence. The true problem was your relentless curiosity, which had, on more than one occasion, managed to insert itself into a situation far too dangerous for polite company. That, and the fact you pulled her attention away from the blood she was meant to spill.

You were a patch of sunlight in her self-imposed eclipse. An unwelcome, yet strangely anchoring, warmth.

Mizu thought lowly of love, that it was only a waste of time and headspace. You showed her otherwise. You would never know of her blue eyes or the breasts she so loathsomely feared. You would only know of the rasp in her throat and the imprint of features pressing against your hands.

The sound of the river running cold over stone was loud enough to mask the subtle tightening of the white cloth that bound Mizu's chest, a constant, abrasive reminder of the secret she was forced to maintain beneath the coarse indigo of her kimono. It had slipped slightly. A minor irritation, quickly addressed with a brusque adjustment of the fabric beneath her outer layer.

She certainly did not want you, of all people, to accidentally graze the wrong section and realize how precarious her disguise truly was.

You, however, were entirely unbothered by her constant state of bristling caution. You knelt beside her near the low, sputtering fire she’d begrudgingly built, your fingers already exploring the world around you with a feather-light curiosity that, frankly, was exhausting. Your heightened sense of smell, another inefficiency, was currently focused on the scent of burned wood and the faint metallic tang of her katana.

She allowed the exploration for another moment, the tips of your fingers were now close to the scabbard, before she finally shifted, knocking the weapon slightly out of reach. You followed the movement like a sunflower tracking the sun, your head cocking to the side.

The soft, sweet scent of your soap⎯or was it your hair?⎯was a startling contrast to the rugged environment.

Mizu lets out a soft sigh, low in her throat, a sound she didn't realize she’d made until you tilted your head further, as if trying to dissect the meaning of the sigh itself. She reaches out with a surprising gentleness, tucking a stray lock of your hair, soft as a fallen petal, behind your ear. It was a gesture of pragmatic correction, not affection. (At least, that is what she repeatedly told the part of her mind that seemed to be softening.)

“Don’t touch that,” she mutters, her tone flat and rough, referring to the hilt of the katana. She steps back slightly, the white cloth of her under-kimono tightening as she does. “It’s not a toy.” Your curiosity, she knew, was going to get you hurt. And the sudden, unwanted weight of that knowledge, the silent realization that she now cared whether you were hurt, felt heavier than the sword itself.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. "Move," she commanded, not unkindly. "You're too close to the fire."