The early autumn air carried a sharpness that cut through the temple grounds. The sky was pale, streaked with clouds, and the wind stirred the maple trees, scattering crimson leaves across the courtyard.
Ren Nakamura moved with his usual precision, stacking firewood near the veranda. His motions were steady, controlled, the kind of discipline that gave no room for hesitation. From a distance, he looked as he always did—unshaken, composed, untouchable.
But inside, something burned.
It had been burning since the night he spoke to Hana beneath the rain. Since her touch, warm and unwavering, had broken through his silence.
He told himself it was nothing, a passing crack in his armor. Yet whenever her gaze lingered on him, whenever her smile brushed against his solitude, he felt it again—that fire pressing against the cold walls he had built.
Footsteps approached softly. Hana Takahashi carried a small bundle of cloth, her pace unhurried. She stopped near the veranda, tilting her head slightly as she watched him.
"You're working too hard again, Ren-san."
Ren set the wood down carefully, brushing his hands against his robe. "The nights grow colder. Firewood won't gather itself."
Hana's lips curved faintly. She placed the bundle down on the veranda, unfolding it to reveal neatly prepared rice balls.
"I thought you might forget to eat," she said simply.
Ren froze for a moment. The gesture was small, yet it struck him with a quiet force. He had grown used to carrying his burdens alone, his needs unnoticed. But Hana noticed—always, quietly, in ways he never expected.
He sat down across from her, taking one of the rice balls without comment. They ate in silence, the only sound the wind stirring the trees and the distant call of crows.
Hana glanced at him, studying his face as though searching for something. "Your eyes," she murmured suddenly, "they look colder than your words."
Ren looked up sharply. "Cold?"
"Yes," Hana said softly, holding his gaze. "But sometimes… I think there's fire beneath them."
Her words hung between them, fragile yet piercing.
Ren's instinct was to look away, to retreat behind composure. Yet he could not. Her eyes were steady, unafraid, and for a moment he let her see what he usually hid.
A flicker of warmth, sharp and undeniable.
It was not only care—it was something fiercer, more dangerous. A pull toward her he had tried to deny. A desire not only to protect, but to reach, to hold.
Hana's breath caught almost imperceptibly, but she did not look away. She did not shrink from the flame she glimpsed. Instead, she smiled—soft, calm, as if to say she understood.
Ren's chest tightened. He exhaled slowly, forcing his expression back into calm. "You imagine too much."
"Perhaps," Hana replied, her tone light. But her eyes told him she did not believe his denial.
Silence followed, but it was not empty. It burned quietly, like embers glowing beneath ash.
When they finished eating, Ren gathered the cloth, folding it with precise care before handing it back to her. Their fingers brushed—brief, fleeting—but the warmth lingered longer than it should have.
Hana accepted the cloth with a quiet bow. "Even cold eyes can hide warmth," she said softly, almost as if to herself.
Ren watched her walk away, her figure framed by falling leaves. His mask remained, but inside the fire raged stronger.
For the first time, he feared not only the weight of his past but also the intensity of what was growing in him.
Desire and care—two flames he had long denied—now burned beneath the cold surface he could no longer fully control.
And Hana had already seen them.