Location: Bathroom – Night
The shoji slid closed with a soft click, sealing Tsukiko inside the bathroom.
Steam curled upward, pale ribbons twisting in the faint light. The scent of hinoki wood mingled with cedar soap, softening the chill still clinging to her bones. Each breath she took drew in warmth, releasing the faint tremor of exhaustion that had followed her since the rain.
For a while, she just stood there — motionless, quiet — watching condensation bead along the mirror. The glow above was soft, a halo cast through mist. The world felt muffled, dreamlike.
Her fingers grazed the soaked hem of her kimono — that once-pristine shrine maiden's garb now heavy with mud and rain. Embroidered cranes shimmered faintly under the steam, symbols of grace and devotion from a world that seemed far away now.
With slow care, she began to untie the obi. The silk loosened, sliding down her shoulders with a sound like sighing paper.
Her pale skin, cool and porcelain-smooth, bore faint traces of battle — bruises along her ribs, small scrapes across her arms. As she shed the last layer, the fabric pooled silently at her feet, and she stood beneath the mist like a spirit shedding her old shell.
How long has it been since I could stand like this… unguarded, unarmed, just… breathing?
She reached up to remove her crescent hairpin and necklace. The ornaments gleamed faintly, catching droplets of light before her trembling fingers set it down by the sink.
When she tried turning the knob, water hissed gently from the showerhead — warm, cascading, alive. The first touch made her gasp quietly, shoulders tensing before the heat melted through her muscles.
She sat on the stool, her tail curling instinctively around her legs. Its silvery scales glimmered beneath the steam, almost translucent. The water drummed softly against her back — a rhythm she hadn't known she missed.
Every movement was deliberate — fingers through hair, soap tracing over skin, her breath syncing with the rhythm of falling water. The unfamiliar scent of Akira's shampoo surrounded her — clean, faintly herbal, grounding.
So this is the scent of his world… it's… gentle.
She smiled faintly without realizing.
Then came a soft knock.
"Make sure the water's not too hot. I'll be right outside if you need me."
His voice was calm, steady, laced with quiet warmth.
Her hand froze mid-motion. The awareness of his presence — just beyond the thin wooden door — sent a subtle heat rising to her cheeks.
She bit her lip softly, trying to steady her breath.
He's not… peeking, right?
Her ears twitched. She could feel his aura, calm and patient, not the faintest hint of mischief.
Relief — and something else, something fluttering — settled inside her chest.
"Thank you," she murmured softly, her voice barely reaching the other side. "It's… comforting, to know."
The silence after that felt strangely companionable, carried by the sound of rain and the steady rhythm of the shower.
Location: Akira's Residence – Hallway - Night
The sound of running water faded into a soft drizzle behind the closed bathroom door, merging with the gentle patter of rain outside. Steam drifted from the room into the hallway, carrying the faint scent of soap and cedarwood—an unfamiliar fragrance to Tsukiko Kamimine, yet strangely comforting. For a few lingering moments, she stayed in the misty hallway, hands resting lightly on the edge of the sink as she gathered her breath.
Human homes were peculiar. So still, yet alive in their own quiet way. Every creak of wood, every faint hum from the kitchen refrigerator, felt like the heartbeat of a gentle creature—unthreatening, warm, self-contained.
Finally, she slid the door open, letting a veil of warmth spill into the hallway. Steam clung faintly to the air as she stepped out, damp turquoise hair falling in uneven waves along her neck and collarbone. The oversized shirt Akira had given her hung loose, brushing the tops of her thighs; its fabric soft and oddly grounding against her skin. The collar slipped slightly from one shoulder, revealing the faint shimmer of an Astral marking near her collarbone—a sigil that pulsed dimly before fading, hidden beneath human light.
The sweatpants he'd lent her were far too big, the cuffs pooling around her ankles. She felt almost swallowed by the domestic softness of it all.
He doesn't look like a giant to me, but why does this clothes look so loose on me?
The shirt smelled faintly of detergent and ink — and beneath it, a trace of rain and warmth that was distinctly Akira's. She tried not to notice how that made her chest tighten.
Her bare feet sank softly into the tatami. The air was warm — a living kind of warmth, like a heartbeat running through the wooden house. Every creak of floorboard, every hum from the refrigerator felt alive.
For a long moment, she stood still on the tatami, bare feet pressing gently into the fibers—coarse yet warm from the heat drifting from the kitchen. Her gaze flicked toward the faint light spilling from a doorway ahead, but she didn't move immediately. Instead, she let her senses extend cautiously, sharpening by habit.
She listened: the distant rhythm of a clock ticking somewhere in the living room, the muffled whisper of rain outside, there were no traces of spiritual interference, no hum of Astral current beneath the walls—only human calm. A stillness she had almost forgotten existed. It unnerved her.
In the Astral Realm, stillness often meant a predator waiting. Here, it meant peace. But peace was something she no longer trusted easily.
This home breathes… it feels like they whisper when no one listens.
Then Akira's voice called softly from deeper in the hallway, grounding her before suspicion could spiral.
"Hey! Over here!"
His tone was calm, steady, reassuring—the gentle steadiness she was beginning to associate with him. Tsukiko blinked, adjusting her focus, and began to walk toward the sound. Each step was cautious—partly due to the ache in her ribs and ankle, partly because her mind still expected a trapdoor to open beneath her feet. Her tail, half-visible in the dim light, swished once, then curled low against her back.
When she reached the threshold, Akira's room came into view. Against one wall stood a simple wooden bed, sheets neat, a light blanket folded at the foot—his usual sleeping spot, modest but comfortable. Near the center of the tatami floor, he had unfolded a spare futon, smoothing the blanket carefully, preparing it for himself so the bed could be hers. His movements were deliberate, each fold and tuck keeping both the room and his thoughts in order.
Location: Akira's Bedroom – Night
When she entered, the air shifted — warm, familiar, faintly scented of tea leaves and paper. Akira's room was neat yet lived-in; a shelf lined with books and a small desk glowed faintly from a lamp's amber light.
He was spreading out a futon on the tatami floor, hands steady, movements unhurried. A folded blanket rested on his knee.
"You didn't have to give up your bed," she said softly.
"It's okay! You sleep on the bed tonight," he said firmly, not looking up. "You need it more than I do."
Her lips parted, ready to protest, but something in his steady gaze made her stop. She let the breath go. "…Thank you."
Before she could sit, his eyes flicked briefly to her side. "Before you rest… let me take a look at your injuries."
Her brows drew together. "You can treat them?"
"I'm not a doctor," he admitted, kneeling beside the low cabinet. "But I've done field care. Enough to patch someone up without making it worse."
He retrieved a small first-aid box, each tool arranged neatly. She could tell — this wasn't just a habit; it was like a ritual.
She perched on the bed's edge, fingers brushing the hem of her borrowed shirt.
When he sat before her, the space between them seemed to shrink. The quiet hum of rain filled the silence, their breaths syncing unconsciously.
He began cleaning the shallow scrapes on her arm, the cool sting of antiseptic softened by his warm touch.
Her tail twitched at every accidental brush of his fingers. Akira pretended not to notice, though his ears burned faintly red.
Focus, Akira. Medicine first. Blushing later.
Tsukiko bit back a small smile.
He wrapped her ankle next — careful, gentle, his movements methodical. She studied his hands — the faint scars, the sure rhythm.
"You have steady hands," she murmured.
"Comes with handling animals," he said, eyes not leaving the bandage. "They don't like it when you panic."
A quiet laugh slipped from her lips — a soft, musical sound that seemed to light up the dim room.
Her voice softened. "You're kind… to everything you touch."
He looked up then, surprised by the raw honesty in her tone.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The rain outside deepened — a curtain between their small world and everything else.
When he finished, he leaned back slightly. "There. Should hold for the night."
"Thank you…"
Their eyes met, the room falling quieter than before—only the muted hum of rain against the roof. She slid beneath the blanket, her tail curling faintly at her side. "Then… I'll rest. Just… don't go far."
"I won't," he said simply, dimming the desk lamp until the room was steeped in amber hush. Shadows softened the edges of the tatami floor, the desk, her face—everything wrapped in stillness.
After a long pause, he asked, "What's your name?"
"…Tsukiko… Tsukiko Kamimine."
"Ah—Tsukiko Kamimine! Yes…" he murmured, recalling and confirming the name he'd seen on the interface during the mission.
"I'm Akira Moriya. You can just call me Akira."
He moved to a small tray on the desk and poured tea into a delicate cup, the steam curling gently in the dim light. Returning to the bed, he leaned slightly over the blanket where Tsukiko lay, offering the cup with a soft, reassuring smile. "Here—drink this. It might help you feel a little better."
She took it gently, their fingers brushing. A small static of warmth lingered longer than it should have.
"Chamomile?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "Supposed to help you relax."
She smiled faintly, bringing the cup close. "It smells… safe."
Silence drifted in again, but it wasn't awkward. Just quiet — the kind that held meaning.
She watched him for a moment, the lamplight drawing gold across his features — the way his hair fell across his brow, the faint crease between his eyebrows when he thought too much.
She felt a faint blush rise to her cheeks and murmured softly, "Thank you… Akira, for helping me."
He gave a small shrug, pretending not to notice the subtle tremor in her voice. "It was the right thing to do."
They spoke quietly, their conversation meandering like the rain—she, cautiously, about how stillness could be dangerous where she came from; he, about his grandparents and how kindness wasn't weakness, but patience, and patience could outlast most storms.
Tsukiko's fingers tightened around the teacup.
"Akira," she said suddenly, voice small, "you shouldn't get too close to me."
He blinked. "Because of your injuries?"
"Because of who I am." Her gaze lowered to the rim of her cup. "Storms follow me. And the next one… may know your address."
He let out a quiet breath, eyes steady. "Then I'll just have to reinforce the roof."
Tsukiko's eyes widened — then softened, a fragile laugh escaping her.
He doesn't understand how dangerous that is… or maybe he does.
The rain deepened again, filling the silence.
Akira poured himself another cup and set it aside to cool. "You can stay here as long as you need. The world outside can wait."
A hush fell; even the rain seemed to pause. Her tail accidentally brushed his shin once—apology or warning—before curling back beneath the blanket.
The room grew still, wrapped in the soft glow of the lamp and the steady rhythm of the rain outside. Between them lingered a fragile understanding—unspoken but growing—a quiet promise that this night marked a beginning, not an end.
Outside, the world continued its slow turning, but inside Akira's home, time seemed to pause, holding space for two souls seeking refuge. And so, beneath the shelter of the rooftop eaves, their story quietly unfolded.
============== End of Chapter 7 ===============