The morning light spilled gently across the stones of the Hoshimi estate, filtering through pine needles and the slats of the veranda roof.The breeze carried the scent of old wood, tea leaves, and a faint hint of citrus from the courtyard.In the distance, a pair of Bangboo rattled down the gravel path, their movements respectful of the prevailing quiet.
Souichirou sipped his tea slowly, allowing the silence to stretch—a habit of his when he wanted words to linger.
Nearby, Miyabi sat upright, her posture suggesting readiness rather than rest.Her coat had been left at the door, and her gloves were folded neatly beside her.In her left hand, she held Tailless, the family heirloom katana, its sealed blade resting across her lap.
"I've been thinking," Souichirou began, his voice mild yet deliberate."About doing something different this year."
Miyabi turned her head slightly."For your birthday?"
He hummed a soft assent."Usually, I avoid the occasion. Too much ceremony. Too many quiet arguments with the elders about how many candles are 'unseemly.'"A pause."But this year feels... different."
Miyabi remained silent, waiting.He smiled faintly—he had always appreciated that about her.
"I'd like to keep it small," he continued."Just a quiet evening here. No guests from the council. No extended family trying to gift me furniture I don't want."
"That sounds reasonable."
"And I'd like you to invite your team."
She blinked once, slowly."My team."
"Yes."
There was no hesitation in his voice, but it wasn't a command—just a gentle offer, a space he was opening rather than a duty assigned.
"They've never visited the estate before."
"I know," he said, taking another sip of tea."I think it's time they did."
She glanced at him, wary."Even Harumasa?"
He gave a dry chuckle."Yes. I imagine he'll bring his usual observations."
Miyabi exhaled, faintly amused despite herself."Soukaku will bring chaos."
"She'll balance the stillness."
Miyabi hesitated."And Yanagi?"
Souichirou's expression didn't shift much, but the glint in his eyes softened."She, most of all."
Miyabi looked down, her fingers resting lightly on the rim of her cup."You've never met her."
"No. But you've mentioned her, even when you didn't mean to. I listen, Miyabi."
A pause passed between them like a held breath.
"I'd like to meet the person who makes you speak without your armor on."
Miyabi's throat worked, but she didn't look up."She's... part of the team."
"I know."Another sip of tea."But not all of them make you soften like she does."
She said nothing.
"I'm not asking you to explain," he added gently."Just to invite."
A long moment passed.
Then, finally, she gave a small nod.
"...Alright."
"Good," he said."I'll leave the rest to you."
He stood, his joints creaking only slightly, and turned back toward the hallway, the hem of his robe brushing softly along the polished wood.
At the door, he paused.
"Don't be too formal when you ask them," he said without turning around."Make it sound like a gesture, not a request."
Miyabi didn't answer right away.
But the teacup she held now sat more easily in her hands.
She would ask.
And when she did, it would not be out of duty.
The Section Six office was quiet—not unusually so, just the natural hush that settled in the hours between patrols and paperwork.The kind of stillness that wasn't empty, but waiting.
Miyabi stood by the window, the pale light of early afternoon brushing the edge of her desk.A file lay open in front of her, but she hadn't turned the page in several minutes.
She was thinking.
Or rather—she was preparing.
Finally, she turned, her gaze sweeping the room.
Yanagi sat at the long table, reviewing supply requests with her usual quiet precision. Harumasa had claimed one of the lounge chairs near the wall, flipping a pen between his fingers like it might tell him something new. Soukaku lay sprawled on the floor, doodling half-asleep with a marker she hadn’t uncapped yet.
Miyabi cleared her throat. Just once—just enough.
“I need to speak with all of you.”
Three heads turned.
She folded her hands behind her back. Not stiff—just steady.
“My father’s birthday is in two days. He’s asked me to invite you. To the estate. For dinner.”
A beat.
Then, quieter: “He wants to meet the team.”
There was a pause.
Yanagi’s pen hovered just above her page. Harumasa blinked once and let his pen fall still. Soukaku tilted her head back, upside-down from her spot on the floor, her expression unreadable for once.
“It’s not an obligation,” Miyabi added. “Just… a gesture.”
Harumasa sat up, pushing a hand through his tousled hair. “Wait. You’re saying theHoshimi Souichiro wants us at the estate? Us?”
“Yes,” Miyabi said simply.
He glanced at the others, then back at her. “He knows who we are, right? He’s met us.”
“He remembers,” Miyabi said dryly. “Especially the time you nearly knocked over the ancestral armor rack.”
“That was one time,” he muttered.
“Twice,” Yanagi corrected softly, without looking up.
Soukaku flipped upright. “Can I wear something fancy? Something with, like, tassels?”
“You may wear what you like,” Miyabi replied. “Within reason.”
Soukaku immediately started scribbling on her notepad, muttering about color palettes.
Yanagi, after a moment, set her pen down and looked across the room. “Are you certain he wants all of us?”
There was no challenge in her voice—just the kind of caution that came from long familiarity with being an outsider.
Miyabi held her gaze. “He asked for you. All of you. And…” Her voice dipped, almost imperceptibly. “He mentioned you by name.”
That startled a flicker of something behind Yanagi’s glasses.
Harumasa leaned forward again, elbows on knees. “We’re not going to be quizzed on Hollow lore over dinner, are we?”
“I can prepare a briefing,” Miyabi offered, straight-faced.
“Please don’t,” he replied immediately.
Soukaku raised a hand. “What are the chopstick rules again? Like, no pointing or impaling.”
“There are no tests,” Miyabi said, almost—almost—smiling. “He’s not interested in protocol. Just presence.”
That quieted them.
Then, as if she couldn’t help it, she added one last thing. “He said he wanted to see who I come home to.”
The silence that followed was the kind that settled like warmth, not absence.
Yanagi’s gaze softened.
Harumasa gave a short, respectful nod.
Soukaku tapped her stylus gently against the table, then grinned. “Guess we better not embarrass you too much, huh?”
Miyabi’s expression didn’t change.
But her stance shifted. Loosened.
Just enough.
The lanterns lining the courtyard had been lit before dusk fell. Pale gold flickered along the stone paths, their glow catching on wind-chimes and water basins, casting curved shadows that moved like breath.
They arrived one by one, their pace unhurried, their clothes unfamiliar in small, thoughtful ways. No one wore armor.
Harumasa’s shirt, though crisply pressed, had one cuff rolled higher than the other. His bow was absent, but his posture still carried its ghost. Soukaku wore her uniform skirt with a kimono-style jacket thrown over it—teal and black, patched with handmade stitching and a dramatic sleeve that swished like she’d promised. Her horns had been polished. There were stickers on her boots.
Yanagi, true to form, was the first to bow to Souichirou. Her hair was braided low at the back, clean and simple. Her naginata was nowhere in sight. Even in this unfamiliar place, she stood without faltering.
Miyabi had greeted them at the threshold. Still. Formal. But the set of her shoulders—low and relaxed—spoke more than her tone did.
Souichirou had not made a grand entrance. He had simply stepped into view with a light smile, dressed in soft neutrals, a cup already in hand. His gaze swept over them not like an inspection—but like sunlight crossing a surface it already knew well.
“I’m grateful you came,” he said. “Miyabi’s company speaks volumes about each of you. And I find myself curious about the people who have learned to walk beside her.”
Yanagi bowed again, quietly. Harumasa gave a nod that bordered on casual but didn’t cross the line. Soukaku blurted, “Your house smells like tea and ancient stories,” which somehow pleased him.
Dinner was served in the garden-facing room, where sliding screens opened out to let the wind in. There were low cushions, lacquered dishes, and the soft murmur of a pond beyond the walls. No servers stayed in the room for long. The atmosphere shaped itself.
They ate.
They listened.
They laughed—carefully, then more freely.
Harumasa complimented the mochi with a kind of reverence that made Soukaku suspicious. Soukaku tried to trade place settings mid-meal until Yanagi silently raised an eyebrow. Even Miyabi smiled, just barely, when a Bangboo drifted too close to the candlelight and had to be shooed away with a fan.
When the last bowls were cleared and a soft pour of plum wine replaced the tea, Souichirou reached for his cup with both hands.
“I don’t often make speeches,” he said mildly, “though my daughter might argue otherwise.”
Across from him, Miyabi sat as she always did—composed, upright, unreadable. But the slight shift in her shoulders, the stiffening of fingers around her cup, the very faint exhale through her nose—these were her tells. The others were watching now, half-amused, half-curious.
“This year,” Souichirou continued, “I asked for something different. No officials. No ancient debates about gifts. Just this—just all of you.”
He let the pause breathe, the wind threading through the open screens.
“Miyabi has walked a path most would not understand. She speaks rarely of herself. But she speaks of you.”
That drew a flicker from Yanagi—her gaze lowering just slightly, her posture subtly shifting in acknowledgment.
“A team that fights beside her is a blessing. A team that stays after the mission ends—well, that’s something rarer.”
His gaze lingered briefly on each of them. And then, a glint of mischief sparked behind the warm calm of his eyes.
“And now, in the spirit of fairness, I think it’s only right to offer a few insights into our beloved chief—purely for context, of course.”
Miyabi didn’t sigh. She didn’t move. But her hand around the cup tightened just slightly, as though bracing for impact.
Souichirou went on.
“When she was seven,” he said lightly, “she appointed herself household security officer. This involved ambushing delivery Bangboos and confiscating any suspicious cargo—particularly pastries. We lost three loaves of bread that month. One was eaten during what she termed ‘evidence analysis.’”
Soukaku gasped. “Boss! You too?!”
Harumasa grinned. “So that’s where the vigilance comes from.”
“She took the role very seriously,” Souichirou said fondly. “Even had her mother draft an official badge. It was made from ribbon and an expired transit card.”
At that, Miyabi’s expression flickered. Not visibly. But her eyes lowered—just for a breath.
Souichirou’s voice softened, just briefly. “Your mother used to pin it to your sleeve every morning. Said it made you stand straighter.”
Miyabi’s hand relaxed from her cup entirely. She didn’t speak, but her gaze fell to the table, unmoving, for just a moment longer than the pause warranted.
Yanagi, seated diagonally from her, stilled. Her eyes never left Miyabi’s face. There was no interruption—no offered comfort—but something in her gaze settled into something deeper. She didn’t look away.
Souichirou didn’t dwell on it.
“At eight,” he continued with gentle humor, “she led a kitchen inspection and cited me for suspicious tea. It was chamomile.”
“You left the kettle open overnight,” Miyabi murmured. “That was valid.”
Soukaku whispered to Yanagi, “She still does this.”
Harumasa looked delighted. “Inspection log must be miles long by now.”
“At nine, she built an obstacle course in the courtyard. Garden hose, training cones, a broom labeled ‘enemy combatant.’ She called it a screening evaluation. One of the koi passed.”
“That koi had promise,” Miyabi said, almost inaudibly.
Souichirou smiled. “And when she was ten, she tried to recite an epic poem for my birthday. She made it to the third stanza before falling asleep in the rice.”
Miyabi took another sip of wine. Slow. Controlled. “I had a fever.”
“You also had a flair for the dramatic. Your mother tried to hide it, but she couldn’t stop laughing.”
That earned a softer pause. Miyabi didn’t look away—but she went still. Not in discomfort, but in memory. Her hand, which had returned to her cup, now rested open on the table, unmoving.
Souichirou’s tone eased. “And once, she challenged the old shrine guardian statue to a duel after it wouldn’t return her bow. She lost. Fell into the koi pond. Returned the next day with backup and a speech about tactical disadvantages.”
“She wrote a full report,” he added with a fond shake of his head.
Harumasa had to cover his mouth to stifle laughter. Soukaku was in open tears.
Yanagi, still quiet, had leaned in—not visibly, not obviously. But her attention was fully trained on Miyabi now. Her brow was drawn ever so slightly, not in concern, but in something quieter. Something like understanding.
As for Miyabi—her face remained composed, but she reached for her cup and missed the handle by half an inch. A blink. A breath. Then she adjusted, lifted it, drank. Not a word.
Her cheeks had taken on the faintest flush—but the real tell was how she sat now. Too straight. As if posture alone could hold the moment at bay.
Souichirou let the laughter linger, then raised his glass one final time. The mischief softened into something more enduring.
“To my daughter,” he said, “and to those who walk beside her. May you always find your way back to each other—no matter what may come in between.”
They raised their cups.
And across the table, Miyabi met Yanagi’s eyes.
Neither of them smiled.
But neither of them looked away.
The celebration had wound down to a comfortable hush. Most of the food had been cleared, the last of the tea poured into well-worn porcelain, and only a few low lanterns remained lit in the sitting room.
Miyabi sat with a straight back but relaxed shoulders, listening quietly as Soukaku dramatically recounted her version of the “fainting Bangboo incident” from two months prior—hands waving, metaphors untraceable. Harumasa lounged nearby, contributing only when it would derail her rhythm for maximum effect.
Yanagi, having finally accepted a cushion near the low table, looked both wary and resigned.
Souichirou observed them from his seat near the hearth, a cup of juice—masquerading as wine, as always—resting lightly in his hands.
When the laughter faded into an easy silence, he cleared his throat gently.
“You’ve all made this an unexpectedly good birthday,” he said. “I expected a quiet dinner, perhaps a lecture from Miyabi about eating too much mochi. Instead, I received stories, teasing, and a team full of strange but dependable people under my roof.”
Miyabi glanced at him from her seat, mildly suspicious. “Is this where you announce you’re adopting them?”
Soukaku’s eyes lit up. “Can I be a Hoshimi too?”
“I’ll need to check the paperwork,” Souichirou replied, deadpan. “But while we’re on the subject—why don’t you stay the night?”
There was a beat of silence.
Miyabi straightened slightly. “Father—”
He held up a hand. “You’re not on duty tomorrow, and it’s already late. The estate has more than enough rooms. And I suspect none of you would object to a night without your usual alarms, power outages, or… explosive instant noodles.”
Soukaku gasped. “It was one time.”
“Three,” Yanagi corrected under her breath.
Harumasa blinked slowly. “Free lodging and no morning drills? Sounds like the universe is offering a rare kindness.”
Soukaku had already flopped backward onto the cushion, arms splayed. “Dibs on the room with the warm windows.”
“You don’t know where that is,” Yanagi said.
“I will by the time I get there.”
Souichirou turned to Miyabi, his tone quieting. “Let them rest here, even if it’s just for tonight. You could use it, too.”
Miyabi hesitated—but only for a moment.
Then she nodded.
“…Alright.”
He smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t need to be wide to hold weight.
“I’ll have the staff prepare guest rooms. Try not to frighten them.”
Soukaku raised her hand. “No promises.”
Harumasa sighed contentedly. “I call the room farthest from the early risers.”
Yanagi didn’t say anything at first, but she gave a small nod of acknowledgment—and if Souichirou noticed that she glanced toward Miyabi first before agreeing, he said nothing.
As they rose to gather their things and head down the hall, Souichirou lingered behind, watching them—his daughter and the people who had slowly become something close to a second family.
And in the soft light of the estate, as coats were shrugged off and quiet laughter echoed down the corridor, the night settled not into silence—but into comfort.
The lanterns were almost out by the time Yanagi rose.
She walked slowly, cup empty, the quiet of the courtyard clinging to her like a second coat. It wasn’t cold. Just... still. Still enough to let thoughts linger where they didn’t always have room.
She hadn’t meant to stay so long.
But she kept thinking about that moment—when he mentioned Miyabi’s mother, softly, just once, and how Miyabi didn’t look away. How she hadn’t flinched or changed expression or spoken—but still, something shifted. A tension loosened. A corner turned inward.
Yanagi had watched it happen and hadn’t known what to do with what it stirred in her.
Now, with her feet just shy of the engawa’s edge, she paused.
A voice came from behind, low and calm.
“You noticed it too.”
She turned.
Souichirou stood there, arms folded lightly, a robe draped over his shoulders. He looked not surprised to see her still here.
Yanagi opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then said quietly, “I didn’t know how much it would matter.”
“It always matters,” he said. “We just don’t always realize when it’s being carried.”
She looked out toward the faint glow of the empty garden path.
“I didn’t expect her to look... like that. When you mentioned her mother.”
“She wouldn’t have expected it either,” he said gently. “It’s been a long time since she allowed anyone to witness that kind of memory.”
Yanagi’s voice was even softer now. “She didn’t speak.”
“She didn’t need to,” Souichirou replied. “And you didn’t look away.”
Yanagi hesitated. “I wasn’t sure if... staying would make things worse.”
“Respect isn’t always about distance,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s about staying.”
She absorbed that quietly.
Souichirou stepped past her, just slightly, so he too faced the darkened garden. His next words were lighter, but held something older beneath them.
“She never used to sit still—not really. Even when she did, she kept one ear tilted toward the door, as if the world was always waiting to fall apart.”
Yanagi let out a small breath through her nose. “She still does that.”
“Then you’ve been paying attention,” he said, not unkindly. “More than most.”
There was a pause.
Then Yanagi asked, almost reluctantly, “Do you think I’ve helped her?”
It was a quiet question, and it sounded strange in her own mouth—too open. But once it was out, she didn’t take it back.
Souichirou was silent for a beat. Then:
“Yes.”
She frowned, as if not entirely believing it.
“She’s strong,” Yanagi said. “She’s always been strong. I just... I don’t know if anything I’ve done matters, not really.”
Souichirou looked at her then, the lines of his face softened in the lantern glow.
“You care about her.”
Yanagi lowered her gaze. “Of course.”
“Then it matters.”
She didn’t argue. But her fingers curled a little tighter around the rim of the cup in her hands.
“She doesn’t always make it easy,” Yanagi said, quieter still. “And neither do I.”
“No one worth holding onto ever does.”
She swallowed. “Sometimes I wonder if I make it harder. If I’m... just another weight she has to carry.”
“You’re not.”
She didn’t reply. Not right away.
Then—just above a whisper—she said, “I want to be steady for her. But I don’t always feel like I am.”
Souichirou nodded once, as if he’d expected that. “Steadiness doesn’t mean certainty. Sometimes it just means staying.”
Another silence passed.
Then, with a quiet warmth, he added, “You are always welcome here, Yanagi. All of you are. But especially you.”
Yanagi looked at him, startled by how gently he’d said it.
“Thank you.”
He smiled faintly. “Consider it official, then. The door’s open.”
And then, with a glint of something knowing beneath his calm: “Take care of her. Not as an order. Just as someone who sees her.”
Yanagi bowed—low, deliberate. Not formality this time. Something else.
When she rose again, Souichirou had already turned to go.
This time, she didn’t watch him leave.
She simply stood there, still holding her cup, and let the quiet stay with her.
The night had settled, soft and wide around them. Only the distant clack of the bamboo fountain broke the stillness.
Yanagi sat, her fingers curled loosely around her now-empty cup. She didn’t need to look up to feel Miyabi approach again—her presence was unmistakable. Quiet, steady. But different now. Not armored, not entirely at ease. Like something was beginning to slip through the seams she always kept sealed.
Miyabi didn’t sit immediately. She stood beside her, gaze fixed somewhere in the dark.
“I saw you speaking with my father,” she said—calm, even. But there was something under it. Not suspicion—something quieter. Curiosity wrapped in restraint.
“He found me,” Yanagi replied.
“That’s something he tends to do,” Miyabi murmured.
She finally lowered herself to sit—not too close, but close enough that their quiet could overlap. Her posture was precise, hands folded neatly in her lap. Controlled. Still trying.
They didn’t speak for a while.
Then Yanagi said, careful as always, “He sees a great deal.”
Miyabi gave the smallest of nods. “He always has.”
There was something else in her voice—subtle, but unmistakable. A note of caution. As if acknowledging too much might unearth something she hadn’t decided she was ready to hold.
Yanagi turned her head, just slightly. “He spoke about you.”
Miyabi didn’t ask what he said. Instead, she glanced upward—toward the half-veiled stars—and said, “He speaks too kindly.”
“No,” Yanagi said. “Not too kindly. Just… honestly. In a way you don’t allow for yourself.”
Miyabi didn’t flinch, but her hands tensed, fingers threading tighter. “I’d rather people see what I do. Not… who I am.”
“And yet,” Yanagi said gently, “you gave me that recording.”
That silenced her.
The breeze moved around them—not intrusive, just enough to remind them the world continued whether or not they spoke.
Miyabi glanced at her hands. Then the sky. Then the quiet space between them—too close to ignore, too fragile to cross.
“I didn’t think it would matter so much,” she said.
“It did,” Yanagi replied.
Another pause stretched between them.
Then—quietly, unexpectedly—Miyabi said, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
It wasn’t dramatic. No crack in her voice. But the admission landed with weight. She didn’t look at Yanagi when she said it. Couldn’t.
“I know,” Yanagi replied. “Neither do I.”
Miyabi looked at her then—just briefly. A flicker sharp with something unspoken.
“I’m used to being relied on,” she said. “To making decisions. But lately... I keep questioning if I’ve already misread something I wasn’t supposed to touch.”
Yanagi didn’t respond immediately. When she did, it was with something quieter than reassurance.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think I’ve already ruined it just by wanting something from you I shouldn’t.”
She shook her head, faintly. “But I trust you anyway.”
Miyabi exhaled, just barely audible.
“I don’t trust myself,” she said. “Not with this.”
Yanagi didn’t push. She simply reached over, setting her cup aside, hands resting lightly on her knees—open. Waiting.
Another silence passed between them.
Then Miyabi breathed, “I don’t even know what this is.”
Yanagi’s voice was a whisper. “It doesn’t need to be named yet.”
Miyabi turned toward her, slowly.
Their eyes met.
No declarations. No answers.
Just the quiet truth of being seen—finally, and without armor.
And neither of them looked away.
They weren’t watching on purpose.
Well. Not entirely.
Soukaku crouched low behind a garden wall, her face lit with the kind of focus normally reserved for stealth ops or dessert-based reconnaissance.
“Boss is actually outside. After curfew. Sitting. Talking. With Nagi. In the dark.”
Harumasa didn’t crouch. He leaned lazily against a stone lantern, arms folded, chewing slowly on a preserved plum stick.
“You’re narrating this like it’s a wildlife documentary.”
“It is,” she whispered. “Rare footage of the emotionally-repressed fox in her natural habitat. Observe the proximity. No immediate tactical threat. High emotional stakes. Unprecedented vulnerability.”
Harumasa arched a brow. “You’ve rehearsed this.”
“Don’t interrupt the broadcast,” she hissed. “We are now witnessing emotional convergence in the wild.”
He let the silence hang a beat. “Now approaching courtship behavior. Note the stillness. The existential pining.”
Soukaku snorted. “Shh. You’ll spook them.”
They peeked over the garden wall again. Lanternlight painted soft silhouettes on the engawa—Miyabi and Yanagi, side by side, hands nearly touching but not quite. The silence around them wasn't awkward. It was intent. Unspoken. Intimate.
“She looks... lighter,” Soukaku said, almost reverently.
Harumasa’s gaze followed hers. “Happens when someone matches your quiet without asking why it’s there.”
A rare hush settled between them.
“Do you think they’ll figure it out?” she asked.
“They’re on the way.”
“…You think Boss knows what she’s feeling?”
He exhaled through his nose. “She’s probably halfway there. The emotionally stunted halfway.”
Soukaku hummed. “We should help.”
“What, fireworks and a banner that says Kiss Already?”
“I was thinking sparklers.”
“You’ll give her an aneurysm.”
“She did threaten to ban snacks last time I color-coded the training logs by flavor.”
“You what?”
“Never mind.”
And then—
“You missed the best part.”
They both jumped.
Souichirou stood behind them, calm as ever, robe draped over his shoulders, one hand tucked into his sleeve, the other holding a half-finished cup of what was almost certainly juice pretending to be wine.
“How long have you been—”
“Long enough,” he said mildly. “To know you’re both terrible at hiding behind ornamental landscaping.”
Harumasa cleared his throat. “We’re conducting a field observation. Mutual repression in bloom.”
Soukaku gave a thumbs-up. “It’s for science.”
Souichirou stepped forward, gaze drifting to the veranda. His voice softened, though the warmth in it remained steady.
“She never used to sit that still. Not unless she was eavesdropping.”
Harumasa blinked. “Like now?”
Soukaku whispered, “It’s hereditary.”
Souichirou smiled faintly. “When she was ten, she used to guard the courtyard gate. Wouldn’t let me in without answering her quiz on tactical breaches. Failed twice.”
Soukaku gaped. “Oh my god.”
Harumasa looked grim. “Did anyone pass?”
“Only her mother. She brought melon.”
Soukaku made a noise halfway between awe and laughter. “That’s terrifying.”
“And completely on brand,” Harumasa added.
Souichirou’s voice gentled. “She’s always protected what mattered. Even when she didn’t have the words for it.”
Soukaku glanced back toward the veranda. “You think she’s still listening now?”
“I think,” he murmured, “she’s learning it’s safe to stop.”
Harumasa’s voice, rare in its softness, dipped. “That’s new.”
“She’s not looking over her shoulder,” Soukaku added.
Souichirou nodded once. “Because for once, someone’s close enough that she doesn’t have to.”
He paused. Then, carefully, “My wife would’ve liked her—that Deputy Chief of yours. I do as well.”
With a gentle smile, he added “She had a soft spot for quiet, stubborn girls who didn’t realize how kind they were.”
That one landed.
Harumasa’s eyes lowered, then lifted. “You’re proud of her.”
Souichirou didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
“She’s my daughter,” he said instead. “But tonight, I saw the part of her that isn’t carrying everything alone. That... I haven’t seen since she was small.”
Soukaku sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Okay, that’s not fair. You can’t make me emotional and then disappear into the fog like a storybook fox.”
Souichirou chuckled under his breath. “You’re all welcome here,” he said, turning back toward the path. “Whether she says it aloud or not.”
And with the quiet grace of someone entirely too practiced at making exits, he vanished into the shadows.
Soukaku and Harumasa stared after him.
“…Did we just get officially emotionally adopted?” she whispered.
“I think we just got the dad seal of approval,” Harumasa muttered.
They peeked back toward the veranda one last time.
Two silhouettes remained.
Close. Quiet. Steady.
No more words.
None needed.
Only presence. And the shape it left in the dark.