Location: Akira's Residence Entrance – Night
The night air clung to Akira like damp silk as he carried Tsukiko inside, the sudden drizzle tracing cool lines down the back of his neck. Each drop made a faint tick-tick against the wooden awning overhead, soft yet insistent, as though the rain had followed them home.
Cradled in his arms, she felt light yet present, every subtle movement transmitted through his hold. Through the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of her body seeped in—dulled by the damp, but constant. Alive.
The wet hem of his coat chilled against his legs, and a bead of rain trickled from his hairline down his cheek. Yet his heartbeat remained strangely calm, like a steady drum beneath the storm. Somewhere deep in his chest, a forgotten rhythm stirred—a quiet awareness of the life in his arms.
Nestled between a bookstore and a ramen shop on a narrow street in old Tatsumori Town, his modest home led to a rain-glossed stone path that curved past a garden of thriving mint, lavender, and seasonal flowers. The soft glow of lanterns spilled from neighboring windows, casting gentle pools of light on the wet pavement—nothing grand or remarkable, but his. And tonight, hers too.
Sliding open the wooden door, a faint scent of tea leaves and old paper drifted toward them. Warmth followed, spilling from the amber lights over the threshold. It pooled in the shadows, softening the edges of the night.
"Almost there," he murmured, words meant more for himself than for her.
Inside, the faint patter of rain against the tiled roof became the house's quiet heartbeat. Akira stepped onto the tatami, carrying her toward the living room where the sofa waited—a small refuge amid the silence.
He lowered her carefully onto the cushions, easing her down as if the wrong angle might break something unseen. Her aqua-blue hair fanned across the armrest like moonlit water, strands catching the lamplight. Her pale face was soft with sleep, lips parted in a slow, steady breath.
Akira reached for a clean towel from a nearby shelf, folding it gently. With deliberate care, he dabbed at the damp patches along her forehead and the curve of her shoulder, careful not to disturb her rest. The faint warmth of her skin seeped through the fabric, steady and alive beneath his touch.
For a fleeting second, his gaze wandered lower than it should have, catching the outline of her collarbone vanishing beneath the loose folds of her kimono. He froze, towel hovering midair. Don't look. Seriously, don't— His brain ignored itself instantly. ...unfair. Heat rushed to his ears as he snapped his focus back to her hair, pretending he hadn't just noticed how dangerously close the fabric was to slipping further.
After ensuring she was settled and dry enough to keep the chill away, he pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it loosely over her. Beneath it, her tail curled gently against her hip, the tip flicking once in a half-conscious reflex before stilling again.
Akira exhaled slowly, his breath almost matching hers.
Safe…
Location: Akira's Residence – Later That Night
Akira's home wasn't large, but it carried the warmth and gentle dignity of a place lived in with care. A single-story house nestled between a bookstore and a ramen shop on a quiet Tatsumori street, it bore the soft charm of older architecture—wooden beams, sliding shōji doors, and worn tatami mats that invited stillness and calm.
Outside, a small garden framed the front gate. Mint and lavender released faint aromas into the cool night air, mingling with the soft glow of lanterns and the scent of rain-soaked earth. A weathered shed stood to one side, quietly holding tools and memories of simpler days.
Inside, the entrance opened into a short genkan, where a neat row of shoes sat beside an umbrella stand. From there, a corridor branched left toward the kitchen and right toward the living area.
The kitchen was compact, lined with cream-colored cabinets polished to a gentle gleam. A kettle rested on the stovetop, still faintly warm from earlier. Hooks by the window held a collection of mismatched mugs—each with a story.
The corridor to the right led into his living room, the heart of the house. The walls were half-lined with tall wooden bookshelves whose spines whispered knowledge and comfort—veterinary manuals, anatomy guides, herbal remedy texts—many marked with penciled notes in his own hand. One entire section was devoted to medicinal plants, a blend of his research and his grandfather's legacy: pressed flowers, leaf diagrams, fragile pages detailing phantom root, night bloom, and river moss. Some bore the yellowing touch of age, others the faint blot of tea stains from nights spent reading under the kotatsu.
At the center of the tatami floor sat a low kotatsu, its quilt spilling warmth into the room. Against the far wall, a modest desk stood neatly arranged—a bamboo stand supporting his laptop, clinic schedules pinned to a corkboard, flashcards stacked in order, and several photographs tucked into the frame. Some showed Akira with his family, smiles softened by age and memory; others captured the faces of animals he had once nursed back to health, each picture a quiet testament to the small bonds he had formed and carried with him.
To the left of the desk, a small aquarium glowed softly. Inside, Goldie, a goldfish rescued from near the seawall, drifted lazily, scales catching flecks of amber. Akira had spotted it floundering in saltwater it couldn't survive, scooped it into a container of fresh water, and hurried home to save it. It wasn't much, but in a quiet way, it was a reminder of life worth noticing and protecting.
On the nightstand beside his bed rested a weathered stuffed dog, fur matted from years of touch. Unlike a simple plush, it had been stitched in the whimsical likeness of a knight—tiny fabric armor draped over its body, a miniature spear fastened securely to one paw. It had been a gift from his parents, made to resemble the Golden Retriever he had cherished as a child—the same loyal playmate who had been at his side since it was a puppy, until it passed away just a few months before reaching two years old. The knightly design had been intentional, a quiet reminder of the dog's protective and steadfast nature, as if even in plush form it still stood watch over him. Akira brushed the toy lightly with his fingertips, and for a moment, his grandmother's voice filled the quiet:
"Every living and non-living thing remembers the shape of your soul, Akira. Treat them with kindness, and they will wait for you at every threshold—this world and the next."
The memory wrapped around him like an old quilt—worn, but warm. He smiled faintly.
"I remember, Grandma. I still do."
From here, a narrow hallway stretched deeper into the house. The first door on the left led to a small bathing room—its tiled floor worn smooth, the air faintly scented with hinoki wood from the bath bucket. Opposite it was a linen cabinet and a narrow closet. At the end of the hallway lay his bedroom.
Just beyond the living room's sliding glass doors was a small balcony. Two potted herbs—mint and lavender—sat beside a shallow tray left out for stray cats. But what always drew his gaze was the third pot. For the longest time, it had been barren… until six or seven months ago, when a single flower bloomed: vibrant pink, its dew-kissed petals shimmering faintly under the moonlight. It never withered, never shed a petal, as though it existed slightly apart from time. He didn't know its name. He simply watered it, spoke to it on quiet nights, and admired how it remained untouched by change.
From the balcony, a solitary sakura tree stood across the narrow alley, its leaves rustling softly despite the still air—a sound that always reminded him of the changing seasons, even when the world felt paused.
And in the quiet of the living room, where the kotatsu spread its warmth, Tsukiko now rested on the sofa—her breathing faint, steady, almost blending with the rhythm of the night.
Akira crouched beside her, brushing rain-damp strands from her cheek. "I'll draw a warm bath and fetch you dry clothes. Rest a bit longer—I'll be right back."
She answered with a drowsy hum and the faintest nod, already slipping back into the hush between heartbeats and rain.
Location: Akira's Residence – Living Room – Moment later
The living room was quiet except for the soft sigh of the evening wind brushing against the sliding doors. Moonlight spilled through the gaps in the curtains, striping the sofa and tatami in pale silver. Akira, having finished his bath, stepped closer, careful not to disturb Tsukiko as she rested. The creak of the floorboard at the threshold was enough to draw her back from sleep
Her lashes fluttered open, and her gaze—still slightly dazed—found him. In the dim light, strands of aqua-blue hair clung to her cheeks, framing her face in loose, damp arcs. The soft gleam of her eyes seemed to shift between guarded caution and the faint disorientation of waking somewhere unfamiliar.
"Hey," Akira murmured, keeping his voice low. "Think you can move, or should you rest a bit longer?"
Tsukiko blinked, then winced faintly, pressing a hand to her side. "Where… are we?" she whispered, her voice soft and shaky. "What happened?"
Akira crouched slightly to meet her gaze. "We're back at my place… safe," he said, choosing each word carefully. "You… got hurt back there, but you made it."
She swallowed, trying to ignore the dull ache radiating from her injuries. "…It hurts," she admitted quietly, a shiver running through her.
Akira hesitated, his brows knitting together as he considered helping her up immediately. He didn't want to cause her more pain, but leaving her lying there didn't feel right either.
"I… think I can manage it," she murmured, glancing at Akira with quiet thanks, keeping her burden light on him.
Akira exhaled and nodded, letting a small, reassuring smile ease onto his face.
"Alright. You should get cleaned up—it might help you feel better."
He held out the folded towel and the loose clothes draped over his arm.
"Bathroom's through that door. I'll make tea while you wash up."
She started to push herself up—but winced halfway, a sharp breath slipping past her lips. Her hand instinctively pressed to her side, fingertips brushing the line of her ribs.
Do you need help getting there?" Akira asked.
Her gaze met his briefly, a silent thanks in her expression.
"I can manage," she whispered, wanting to keep the task to herself.
But when she shifted again, the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. After a pause, she exhaled and murmured, "…Maybe just to the door."
Akira stepped closer, his movements unhurried. He slid an arm close to her back, not touching at first—waiting for her to lean into him on her own terms. She did, just enough that their balance found a quiet rhythm.
They moved together in short, deliberate steps, the tatami giving softly under their weight. She was light against him, but there was substance there—a living warmth dulled by damp clothes, carrying the faint scent of drizzling rain and something sharper, like the edge of river stone.
At the bathroom door, Akira slid it open and stepped inside just far enough to place the towel and clothes neatly on the counter. He glanced at her, then toward the fixtures.
"I'm guessing your world's bathing setup isn't quite like this," he said gently, pointing to the narrow shower stall and the small control panel beside it. "This knob adjusts the temperature—left for hotter, right for cooler. The lever starts the water flow. You can sit on the stool if standing's too much."
He picked up two bottles from the shelf—one white, one clear—and held them out briefly so she could see. "This one's shampoo," he said, bringing the white bottle up and lightly tilting it above her head, letting a few drops fall onto his palm as if demonstrating where it should go. "The other is body soap," he continued, gently rubbing his own forearm in a sweeping motion to show how it lathers. "A little goes a long way."
Tsukiko's tail twitched faintly, her eyes following his hands with careful attention. She nodded slowly, her expression a mixture of concentration and curiosity, as if memorizing the motions before trying them herself.
"Take your time," Akira added, stepping back toward the hallway. "Tea will be ready when you're done."
Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat before she nodded.
The shoji slid closed with a soft click, and the steady rhythm of rain filled the silence once more.
Akira lingered a moment in the hallway, listening to the sound of running water beyond the door. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned toward the kitchen, the faint rustle of his footsteps fading into the hum of the house.
Outside, the lanterns along the street flickered in the drizzle, their glow reflected in the puddles below. Inside, warmth slowly filled the quiet space—a fragile peace, born of two lives now sharing the same roof.
Safe… for now.
============== End of Chapter 6 ===============