Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: Terminal Exhaustion

Kohaku didn’t like traveling last minute. He hated it. The very concept of spontaneity when it came to air travel made his skin itch. Rushed packing, unpredictable delays, strangers breathing too close in terminals that smelled like burnt coffee and old stress—every part of it was a personal insult. Worse, the chaos unraveled the carefully stitched seams of his sanity. Kohaku wasn’t built for chaos. He was built for itineraries, for neatly outlined plans, for checkboxes ticked off with satisfying little pen clicks.

And yet, here he was.

Running on half a granola bar, four hours of sleep, and a quiet internal scream that had stretched across three airports. His shoes were soaked from a puddle he hadn’t seen coming, his hoodie was damp at the shoulders from a rainstorm that ambushed him in the parking garage, and he was ninety percent sure his deodorant had given up somewhere over customs. He didn’t look like a man about to fly. He looked like a cautionary tale about time management. His carry-on was packed like a clown car of regret, zippers barely holding together a chaotic mess of clothes, chargers, and one stress-wrinkled dress shirt he’d intended to iron but never did.

It slapped against his back with every step like it, too, resented his choices.

He sighed through his nose, the long, silent kind that spoke volumes. His boarding pass was already smudged at the edges, damp from being clutched in a panic-sweaty hand earlier at the security line. He scanned it with a flick of his wrist, ignoring the polite smile from the attendant that felt more like a mercy than a greeting. The jet bridge swallowed him in that familiar metallic cool, the scent of recycled air, rubber, and the ghosts of a thousand sad sandwiches clinging to the walls like mildew.

The line didn’t move.

Businessmen blocked the aisle like overgrown pigeons, squawking into their Bluetooth earpieces, holding coffee cups like trophies of productivity. Kohaku waited behind them with the expression of a man rehearsing an apology he’d rather not give. Sango’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and unmistakable even across time zones. “If you miss this birthday, I will personally fly to wherever you are and beat you with a balloon animal.”

He’d believed her.

She didn’t make idle threats—she made art. Once, she sent him a cake shaped like his own head with a wick in the top and lit it on fire while singing “Happy Birthday” in a minor key. His nephew had clapped. Kohaku had gotten the message. So here he was—despite the delays, the hunger, the unraveling fabric of his mental state—boarding a flight he’d booked six hours ago.

The airplane loomed ahead like an aluminum regret. A man was passed out against the wall of the gate, mouth agape, hugging a neck pillow like it owed him rent. Somewhere behind him, a baby shrieked like it had lost all faith in humanity. In front, someone dropped a takeout bag and the scent of soggy fries and despair filled the air. Kohaku didn’t flinch. He just kept walking, eyes forward, soul dead.

Row 17. Window seat.

He slid into 17A with the exhausted grace of a man who’d lost all concept of shame. Backpack underfoot. Knees slightly crunched. Hoodie hood up. Eyes closed. He didn’t sleep—not yet—but he hit that sweet spot between wakefulness and unconsciousness, where the body stops pretending it’s okay and the brain floats like a balloon slowly losing air.

It didn’t last.

Someone was coming. He didn’t hear her at first—he felt her. The awkward energy of someone late, tired, possibly in combat with her own luggage. He cracked one eye open. She stumbled in like a woman mid-fight with gravity, one heel clicking, the other half-dragged. Her bag leaned dramatically to one side like it was trying to abandon her mid-aisle. Her blazer was wrinkled, hair falling in strands across her face, and her eyes squinted like the plane lighting had just insulted her lineage.

Their eyes met.

Just a second. Maybe less. But it hit him—sharp and sudden—the jolt of recognition that wasn’t about memory. Not a “Have I met her before?” but a “Why do I feel like I should have?” A flicker of something that didn’t have a name. She blinked. Looked down at her ticket like it had betrayed her.

“Seventeen B,” she muttered.

Her voice was rough, like she’d been shouting or hadn’t spoken in hours. Maybe both. Kohaku stared back, trying to mentally process that this stunningly exhausted stranger would be sitting within knee-brushing distance for the next several hours.

She didn’t move at first.

Just stared at the empty seat between them. Then at him. “Look,” she said, deadpan. “I’m too tired to do the polite stranger dance. So here’s the deal—I might fall asleep. I might die. If I do, feel free to roll me into the aisle and ask the flight attendant for peanuts.”

Kohaku barked out a laugh he didn’t know he still had in him. “Noted.”

She gave him a weak, sideways smirk. “Great. And if they try to charge my card after I’m dead, tell them I want the miles at least.”

He shifted his legs to make room, unsure if his heart had just skipped a beat from exhaustion or something else entirely. “I’ll make sure it’s on your tombstone. ‘Died doing what she hated: proximity to strangers.’”

She sank into the seat like a dropped puppet. Bag shoved under the chair in front. Hair left a mess. Blazer crumpled. She didn’t fix anything. Just buckled in, exhaled like she’d barely made it out of a war zone, and closed her eyes.

“This week has been three years long,” she muttered.

Kohaku turned his head slightly. “Rough day?”

She laughed. Just once. It sounded like disbelief wrapped in sandpaper. “Try Shanghai to Seoul, back to Shanghai, then Tokyo—all in four days. Seven meetings. No sleep. And my boss decided to go over Q4 revenue forecasts on the way to the airport.”

“With…printed slides?”

She groaned. “In a binder.”

“That’s violence.”

“Thank you!” she said, flinging her hands up briefly in surrender. “He said, ‘I like to feel the numbers.’ Who says that?!”

Kohaku shook his head solemnly. “You’re a survivor.”

“I’m a statistic,” she mumbled, kicking off one heel with a grunt. The other followed. Her socks hit the floor, toes flexing in soft rebellion. She sighed like it was the first time she’d done it in days. Not a dramatic sigh, just… surrender. That tiny act of removing her shoes seemed to shave five percent off her stress.

Kohaku tried not to look. He tried harder not to care.

But there was something about her stillness.

The way her shoulders slumped like a marionette whose strings had finally been cut. The way her fingers rested lightly in her lap, twitching every so often like she was still running data in her sleep. She radiated fatigue like a scent. Like energy. Like someone who had been strong too long and didn’t know how to stop.

“Do you want the armrest up?” he asked gently.

She looked at it blankly. “No. Leave it. I’m too tired to pretend I’m open to human interaction.”

He huffed a laugh. “Respect.”

They fell into silence.

But it wasn’t awkward. Not filled with the usual tension of strangers politely ignoring each other. It was…mutual. Earned. Like both of them had stepped into a no-bullshit zone together and agreed, silently, not to ruin it.

“Thanks for being normal,” she said quietly. “Last week some guy pitched me a crypto app before takeoff.”

Kohaku cringed. “Oh no.”

“He had a pie chart.”

“Oh no.”

“On paper.”

“Ma’am,” he said, dead serious. “That’s a hate crime.”

She laughed again, and something in her face eased. Her jaw unclenched. Her posture dropped a notch further. She turned slightly, unconsciously leaning just a fraction closer to him, like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

And then the plane began to taxi.

And five minutes later, she was gone.

Not dead. Just deeply, powerfully asleep.

She didn’t do the slow descent into slumber most people do. There was no polite fidgeting, no dramatic sighing. One minute she was upright. The next, her head dipped. Chin to chest. Then slowly, slowly, her body tilted.

Toward him.

At first, it was just a soft brush of her hair against his hoodie. Then her temple found the edge of his shoulder. And stayed there. He froze. Not out of discomfort—but confusion. Her weight was subtle. Natural. Like she’d done this before. Not with him, of course—but with someone. Someone she trusted. Someone she could fall against and know the world would hold.

His breath caught. Just slightly.

Then the scent of her hit him.

It wasn’t perfume. It was exhaustion and something else. Hotel soap. A hint of lavender. Citrus tea. Skin. Warmth. All of it tangled into something that said, I didn’t mean to fall asleep here, but I’m safe now.

And then her mouth landed on his neck.

Not in any overt or strange way. Just…there. Her head slumped slightly with turbulence, and her lips pressed into the space above his collarbone. Soft. Barely touching. But present. She exhaled.

Kohaku’s soul left his body.

His fingers curled slightly against the seat. His spine tensed. He didn’t dare move. Not because he was afraid of waking her—but because he was afraid of what it meant if he didn’t want to.

He sat like that for twenty minutes.

Her breathing evened. Her body relaxed into him further. And then it got worse. Her hand slid over in her sleep, landing on his stomach. Light at first. Then curling slightly, fingers brushing against fabric like she was chasing warmth.

He snapped.

Not loudly. Not visibly. Just…internally. A whisper of surrender that echoed through his bones.

She shifted again, and the armrest dug into her side.

Her brow furrowed in her sleep.

That was the moment he broke.

Slowly, carefully, he reached down and lifted the armrest between them. She made a small noise—half hum, half sigh—and then she was fully against him. Not just head-on-shoulder. She folded into him like she belonged there. Shoulder tucked beneath his arm. Thigh against thigh. Hand on his chest.

And that was it.

She wasn’t a stranger anymore.

Not to his body. Not to the part of him that remembered this—this warmth, this softness, this unconscious intimacy. As if she’d done this before, in some other life. On rainy afternoons. On quiet mornings with coffee and no obligations. She held him like a memory.

And he let her.

Across the aisle, an older woman was watching.

Her book sat open on her lap, unread. Her gray hair was neat. Her smile was wicked. When Kohaku met her eyes, she raised an eyebrow. He shook his head once, slow and warning. Don’t you dare.

She winked.

He groaned inwardly and let his head tilt just slightly—just enough so her hair brushed his cheek. His arm curved a little more around her.

Just until landing, he told himself.
Just until the lights came on.
Just until the world came back.

But deep down, a quiet, traitorous thought whispered:

What if she doesn’t move?
What if she wakes up…and stays?

And for the first time all day, Kohaku didn’t hate traveling last minute.

Because he had a sleeping woman on his chest, a hand on his stomach, and the haunting suspicion that he was going to remember this flight for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: She’s Not Awake, and This Is Not a Dream

She didn’t wake up.

And somehow, that was the most dangerous part.

One hour and twelve minutes into the flight, and the woman sprawled across Kohaku’s chest was still completely, blissfully unconscious—utterly detached from the swirling chaos she was creating in his head. She breathed slowly, deeply, like someone who had been underwater for days and had only just surfaced. Her presence was heavy, not in weight, but in intimacy—a density of trust, of unconscious vulnerability that wrapped itself around him like a second skin.

And gods help him, she was getting bolder.

Not on purpose, of course. She wasn’t some flirtatious seatmate trying to start a rom-com in row 17. She was gone—out cold, deep in whatever dreamscape corporate overwork had carved into her subconscious. Probably dreaming of spreadsheets catching fire or quarterly meetings that ended in spontaneous applause. But her body didn’t care. Her body was on a mission to consume every available inch of warmth he offered—and then some.

She curled into him tighter, arm now draped fully across his waist like she’d claimed the property via eminent domain. Her leg shifted against his—slow, sleepy, and devastating. Not overtly suggestive, just…present. Her toes hooked around his shin with casual familiarity. One hand, previously neutral and non-threatening, twitched against his stomach and settled there again, fingers flexing like she was testing the density of his abs through layers of hoodie and emotional repression.

Kohaku didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

He sat in 17A like a man possessed—rigid, silent, locked in a position so delicate that even breathing felt like a betrayal. His eyes fixed forward. His jaw clenched with the discipline of a monk and the panic of someone one wrong shift away from accidental second base. Every nerve in his body was screaming, What do we do?! while his heart whispered, Don’t ruin it.

Then the unthinkable happened.

She drooled.

Just a little. Just enough. A warm, slow patch of damp bloomed against the side of his neck where her lips had been resting far too long. It wasn’t gross. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real. Tangible. A very specific level of intimacy he hadn’t signed up for but now could never forget.

His jaw ticked.

His soul tried to leave his body.

She made a soft sound—somewhere between a sigh and a growl—and huffed. Actually huffed. Like her subconscious was annoyed with him for not being plush enough. Like his collarbone had inconvenienced her REM cycle.

He didn’t laugh. But it was a near thing.

Then came the talking.

It started with a mumble. Slurred, thick with sleep. Almost sweet in its incoherence. But the content? The content was chaos. Her tone, buried in the folds of his hoodie, came out as pure murder. Corporate, caffeine-starved murder.

“…we already did the spreadsheet…tell Jeremy he can choke…”

Kohaku blinked slowly.

Jeremy. Of course there was a Jeremy. There was always a Jeremy in these stories—the insufferable coworker, the one who double-booked meetings and asked “quick question?” with full intention of derailing your day. Kohaku didn’t know this woman’s last name. Didn’t know her middle name, her favorite food, or even her star sign. But he now knew she had a vendetta. And Jeremy was the target.

“…not redoing the deck…we sent the deck…we sent it…”

She sighed, frustrated, and then moved again—just enough to drag her leg further over his. She wasn’t cuddling him anymore. She was fusing with him. Like a human blanket that had fallen asleep mid-merger. Her hand flexed against his stomach again, not possessive but familiar. Like it had been there before and would be again.

Kohaku’s arms hovered in uncertainty.

One was pinned beneath her ribs. The other had no safe destination. He couldn’t rest it across her back without it being weird. Couldn’t move it without jostling her. His shoulder was the designated pillow now, and there was no reclaiming it. He was trapped—willingly, confusedly, emotionally—and he didn’t want to be rescued.

A shadow loomed beside them.

He turned his head just slightly and saw a flight attendant standing beside their row. Young. Slim. Bleached hair styled like he knew it was illegal to look this good at 35,000 feet. He held a tray of drinks and wore the name tag “Haru,” but his expression said he lived for midair soap operas.

Haru leaned in. Lowered his voice.

“Hey,” he said, smirking. “Your wife okay? Want a blanket for her?”

Kohaku’s brain stalled.

Wife?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down. The woman in question—currently muttering about someone named Brian and drooling against his hoodie—did not seem like someone capable of protesting the accusation.

“…yeah,” he said finally, quiet and dazed. “Blanket would be great.”

Haru gave a wink so knowing it bordered on illegal and walked off like a man satisfied with his cameo in someone else’s love story. Kohaku stared straight ahead. His pulse pounded in his ears. His face was probably on fire. He didn’t correct the assumption. Couldn’t. Because the word echoed in his head like a memory from the future.

Wife.

Ridiculous.

And yet.

The woman beside him snorted softly and mumbled, “I’m not rebranding the app, Brian, I don’t care if the color scheme hurts your soul.”

Kohaku grinned. It came unbidden, unstoppable. “You tell him, sweetheart.”

She didn’t hear him.

Didn’t stir.

But his chest ached with something strange. Something warm. Something ridiculous.

Haru returned. Draped the blanket gently over both of them, his movements slow and practiced. He tucked it around her like a conspirator. Never waking her. Never asking questions.

Kohaku let his hand settle—gently, lightly—on the small of her back. Not gripping. Just there. A point of contact. A quiet promise. He didn’t know her, but his body did. His body, apparently, had decided it loved this. Needed this. Was built for this.

She murmured something under her breath that sounded like “fiscal hostage situation” and burrowed in deeper.

Kohaku stared down at her. At this woman. This mystery. This whirlwind of exhaustion and sarcasm and unexpected affection.

She slept.

And he stayed.

To anyone else, they looked normal.

Sweet, even.

Like any other couple you might pass on a flight. Comfortable. Familiar. A woman sleeping on her husband’s shoulder, a blanket pulled over them both, her breathing soft and steady. His hand resting gently on her spine, his cheek lightly brushing her hair.

Perfect strangers with perfect posture.

Nobody could see the chaos beneath that blanket. The leg draped over his thigh. The hand flexing occasionally like it still held a mouse. The drool, now comfortably soaking into his collarbone. The furious rant against color schemes and Jeremy, wherever he was.

And nobody knew the truth: Kohaku didn’t even know her name.

Not her first name. Not her last. Not the city she lived in or the job that had driven her to weaponized exhaustion. He didn’t know where she was going, or who she might become after waking up.

But his body?

His body had already decided.

It knew her. Trusted her. Liked her.

He reviewed the facts like a man building a defense case for falling in love in economy class.

• She was tired enough to cuddle him like a body pillow.
• She smelled like hotel soap and vengeance.
• She had opinions about color palettes and named them aloud in her sleep.
• And most damning of all, she’d called someone a weasel with a level of venom that sparked joy.

He was doomed.

Then the speaker dinged.

Kohaku’s heart sank.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain announced, in the kind of upbeat voice usually reserved for cruise ship bingo nights, “we’re currently facing a major weather system moving into Tokyo’s airspace. Due to safety concerns, we will be returning to Shanghai.”

Kohaku blinked.

Returning?

The captain continued, chirpy and oblivious. “Estimated flight time, just under two hours. Please note: all Tokyo flights are grounded for the next forty-eight hours. Hotel vouchers will be issued.”

The plane groaned. Or maybe that was everyone on it. Murmurs rose around them. Audible complaints. The unmistakable hum of a collective meltdown.

Kohaku didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Just looked down at the woman draped over his torso like a highly affectionate trench coat and wondered what alternate dimension he’d woken up in.

Still sleeping. Still tangled around him. Still murmuring something about compliance reports and onboarding funnels.

And he? He was trapped. In row 17. In a pseudo-marriage. In a very, very personal cuddle zone.

The pilot’s voice returned.

“Update for our passengers—we’ve been cleared to land in Kyoto instead, which is closer. We’ll be touching down in approximately thirty-five minutes.”

Kyoto.

A miracle.

Closer than Shanghai. Less horrifying than an international delay with vending machine noodles and jetlagged businessmen. Kohaku exhaled, deeply and sincerely.

And then he inhaled sharply because she moved again.

Not dramatically. Not wildly. But deliberately. Her fingers dragged over his stomach like she was petting stress out of him. Her leg tucked more tightly along his. Her mouth brushed against his neck, warm and open.

He forgot how to breathe.

The tension in his muscles reformed itself into something unfamiliar. Longing, maybe. Or need. Or an aching desire to stay in this moment, this strange little pocket of time where the world didn’t exist and he was wanted—chosen, even if only by a sleep-deprived unconscious mind.

Then, he saw it.

Her bag had shifted.

Half-spilled from beneath the seat. Zippers parted. And there, tucked into a mesh sleeve on the side, a laminated ID badge swung gently with the motion of the plane.

He squinted.

Kagome Higurashi
Project Manager
LunarOne Tech, Inc.

He read it twice to be sure. Three times to taste it.

Kagome.

It fit. Somehow, it fit. It sounded like someone who took no shit but still brought cookies to meetings. Someone who had a calendar full of deadlines, a phone full of angry Slack threads, and a secret playlist labeled “Yell in the Car.”

Kagome Higurashi.

Of course she had a full name like that. Strong. Rhythmic. A name that walked into rooms first and left last.

Kohaku looked down at her again.

“Kagome,” he whispered.

She didn’t stir.

Didn’t move.

Just drooled a little more and muttered, “If he changes the delivery date again, I will throw him into the sun.”

Kohaku nearly lost it. Bit his lip to hold in the laugh. He’d never met Jeremy, Brian, Jason, or whatever sad collection of souls made up her project team—but he pitied them. Respected them. And also wanted to send them a fruit basket for being the plot device that dropped this woman into his lap.

He imagined her office. A battlefield. Kagome striding in with a stack of printouts and a stare sharp enough to cut glass. A whiteboard scarred with deadlines and rage. Cupcakes with frosting coded by priority level. She made interns cry and then bought them boba. She’d led a full-blown marketing team mutiny and lived to tell the tale.

And her apartment?

Books. So many books. Mismatched mugs. A candle she never lit. Her bathroom mirror cracked from a dropped hairdryer. Keys in the fridge. Phone in the pantry. A life of quiet chaos, anchored by checklists she sometimes forgot to check.

He saw it. All of it. A whole life imagined from the crook of a neck and a name on a lanyard.

She sighed contentedly and nestled closer.

Kohaku tilted his head back. Let his eyes close. Let his arm settle across her back fully this time.

And said nothing.

Not even when she muttered, “Jeremy, you absolute weasel.”

Because, honestly?

He agreed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: The Wake-Up and the Leg Claim

It started with a twitch. The kind of small, barely-there movement that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Kohaku felt it instantly. It wasn’t just the shift of muscle or the slight change in pressure—it was the undercurrent beneath it. The signal that her body was waking up before her mind, stretching toward consciousness like a swimmer surfacing after a long dive. Her fingers, which had been loosely curled against his stomach, slackened. Her breathing, which had been slow and even and completely unselfconscious, hitched—just barely—but enough to change the air between them.

And then she moved.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t one of those gentle, cinematic transitions from sleep to alertness. No, it was abrupt. A full-body scoot like someone yanking a phone charger from a socket without looking. She peeled herself off of him in stages—shoulder, hip, leg—like a sticker reluctantly giving up its grip on a warm laptop. Kohaku didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe. He just watched it happen, heart ticking up slightly with every inch she reclaimed.

Her thigh dragged along his with the friction of shared warmth and mild regret. Her cheek, which had rested so perfectly against his collarbone, left behind the faint memory of skin-on-skin pressure. And then she slumped into her own seat like a soldier retreating from battle, the airline blanket still tangled like a flag of surrender around her hips.

Her eyes remained shut for a moment longer.

Mouth slightly open. Brow furrowed like someone trying to remember what city they were in or what year taxes were due. Her head lolled, bobbed, then tilted toward the window as if gravity itself was waiting for permission to give up on her.

Kohaku sat perfectly still, his arms tingling as circulation returned. He flexed the fingers of his pinned hand now that they were no longer crushed beneath her ribcage, letting the numbness fade. The ghost of her weight lingered against his side, warm and confusing. His shoulder still held the memory of her breath.

Then—finally—her eyes opened.

Not all at once. Slowly. Uncertainly. She blinked, long and slow, like she was adjusting to the idea of existing. Kohaku saw the hazy confusion cross her face as she looked down at herself—at the unfamiliar blanket draped over her like a second skin, at the mussed fabric of her blazer, at the pillow of his hoodie where her cheek had been parked for…well, a while.

Then her gaze dropped to her leg.

Still warm from the prolonged contact. Still half-tucked against his.

And then—oh gods—her eyes met his.

He gave her a second.

She needed a second.

And he saw it—like watching a window frost over in reverse. Her pupils dilated. Her lashes fluttered. And then came the moment. The one where everything clicked. The realization slammed into her like a freight train of mortification. Shoulder to cheek. Leg to lap. Drool to neck.

She inhaled. Sharp. Small. Her mouth opened as if to speak—then didn’t.

And before she could unravel completely, Kohaku offered the only thing he could think of: a crooked, thoroughly amused smile.

“So,” he said casually, “you’re my travel wife now.”

He braced himself. She looked like she was about to either vomit, cry, or sue him for emotional damages.

Her jaw parted. No sound came out.

He leaned in just a little, voice dipped in feigned solemnity. “Drool. Blanket. Full leg claim. And I think at one point you threatened someone named Jeremy with a stapler in your sleep. I’m not saying we’re legally married, but I’m pretty sure the flight attendants are planning our anniversary dinner.”

She stared at him. Unblinking. Expression unreadable.

And then, in a voice flat with horror and thick with the weight of social death, she muttered, “…The fuck?”

Kohaku laughed.

Not in a loud way—not the kind of laugh that would draw attention. But a quiet, helpless chuckle slipped past his lips. He tilted his head back against the headrest and covered his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely-contained amusement. It wasn’t mockery—it was disbelief. And a little awe.

She groaned. Low and long.

Then dropped her face into both hands like she could hide from the memory trying to eat her alive. “I drooled on you, didn’t I?”

“Spectacularly,” he said, still grinning.

“I…cuddled you?”

“Professionally. Like someone with endorsements.”

“I’m going to die.”

He grinned wider. “Too late. You already committed to the marriage. Pretty sure you called me a ‘synergy parasite.’ It was oddly flattering.”

She peeked at him through her fingers, squinting. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugged with practiced ease. “Just a little. You were also really warm. So it’s kind of a win-win.”

She looked like she wanted to argue. Maybe yell. Maybe disappear. But her mouth just opened… and closed again. Finally, she ran a hand through her tangled hair, cheeks blotchy with heat, and turned toward the window.

“My dignity’s gone,” she muttered. “Evaporated. Like a bad internship.”

“Left the moment you called Brian a ‘color-blind menace to UI design,’” Kohaku offered helpfully.

She let out a strangled groan and tightened the blanket around herself like it was armor. “Please do me a favor and pretend I don’t exist for the rest of the flight.”

He lifted a brow. “Should I give you your leg back first? Still technically draped across my taxable property.”

That earned a snort. Small. Reluctant. But real.

Then she paused. Looked out the window again. “Wait. Why aren’t we landing?”

Kohaku scratched the side of his neck, eyes flicking to the seatbelt light. “Yeah, so. Minor update. Weather shut down Tokyo airspace. They rerouted us to Kyoto. We’ll be touching down soon.”

She turned sharply. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” he said, then gestured to the tray table. “On the bright side, they gave us a blanket. And, you know, an impromptu domestic partnership.”

Kagome let her head fall back against the seat and dragged the blanket over her face. “Wake me when I can walk into the nearest traffic cone.”

Kohaku crossed his arms and smiled to himself.

She was flustered. Mortified. Disoriented. But not mean. Not cruel. And that, strangely enough, made him like her more.

He glanced sideways, watching as she rubbed her eyes and tried to reclaim some semblance of adult functionality. It didn’t work. Her mascara was slightly smudged. Her blazer rumpled. Her dignity, possibly still at 30,000 feet.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “For the…everything.”

He tilted his head. “You mean the drool? The accidental spooning? Or the part where you accused someone named Jason of violating brand guidelines in your sleep?”

She cracked one eye open. “All of it.”

He gave her a warm smile, softer this time. “Apology accepted. Honestly, I’ve had way worse seatmates.”

She let out a breath, tried to fix her hair again, and failed. “Do you have somewhere to be? Like urgently?”

Kohaku shook his head. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

She gave a grim nod. “Well. I’m supposed to be in Tokyo for a pitch. Which is now…somewhere underwater, metaphorically. Maybe literally, if this weather holds.”

“Pitch ruined by acts of God,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s a good excuse. You should keep that one.”

She pulled out her phone and grimaced at the dead battery icon. “Can’t even warn them.”

“Hotel will have outlets,” he said. “Probably.”

“Hopefully,” she muttered, tapping the screen in vain. “Otherwise I’ll have to carve an apology into a rock and throw it into the sea.”

“Old school,” he said, grinning. “Classic approach. I’m impressed, Kagome.”

She paused. Then looked at him again, brow furrowed.

“You know my name,” she said.

Kohaku gave a sheepish nod. “Your ID badge peeked out during turbulence. I figured reading it was safer than waking you up with a poke.”

“Creeper,” she said automatically.

“Survivor,” he replied.

She smiled despite herself. “Kagome. Higurashi.”

He extended a hand. “Kohaku.”

She took it. Warm grip. Firm shake.

“Nice to meet you, Kohaku. Sorry for using you like a memory foam pillow with emotional trauma.”

He laughed. “You were ergonomically sound. Good balance. Nice pressure points.”

Kagome groaned again. “God, this is going to haunt me forever.”

“Or,” he offered, “you could lean into it. Own the chaos. Rebrand.”

“You’re just enjoying the free cuddling,” she accused.

“Would it help if I said I’ve never felt more cherished in my life?”

She gave him a flat look. “You’re insufferable.”

“Married to me now, though,” he pointed out.

She looked up toward the ceiling. “If I die, bury me under a new identity.”

He grinned.

Kagome shook her head, amused in spite of herself. “God. If this ends up on TikTok…”

Kohaku glanced toward the older woman across the aisle. “I think someone did film it, but she looked very pro-us. I think she’s emotionally invested now.”

Kagome sank lower in her seat. “I’m going to need a drink. Possibly six.”

He paused.

Then—gently—“I could buy the first round.”

She blinked.

He continued, softer now, voice steadier. “If we’re both stranded…and not on fire…maybe lunch? Or a bar. Wherever the voucher roulette dumps us.”

She didn’t answer right away. Looked out the window instead.

The clouds were thinning. The Kyoto skyline emerging—wet, soft, glowing faintly under a muted sky. A fresh start hidden behind the storm.

“…If the hotel has Wi-Fi,” she said finally, “and I can charge my phone, and there’s a bar within walking distance…”

He smiled. “Then it’s a date.”

And as the plane dipped toward the runway and the final announcement played, neither of them moved to grab their bags.

They just sat there—strangers orbiting the edge of something real, hearts still slightly tangled in turbulence.

And somewhere, underneath the weight of airline blankets and unlikely connections, a story was beginning.

One leg at a time

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Transit, Tequila, and the Tropiest Hell

The airport shuttle was war. Not a figure of speech, not a metaphorical exaggeration, but the real, soul-depleting, elbows-out sort of conflict that stripped humans of civility and replaced it with primal instinct. It had begun before the shuttle even arrived—people subtly jockeying for position, forming a line that was less “orderly queue” and more “vaguely aggressive amoeba of rage.” There were elbows flying with surgical precision. Suitcases became weapons, rolling across polished tile like battering rams on a battlefield. A man in a neck pillow shouted at a gate agent with the authority of someone who once had a corporate credit card and never got over losing it.

Kagome stood just behind Kohaku, arms folded tightly over her chest, the airline blanket from the plane stuffed beneath one arm like a limp casualty of an unseen war. Her jaw was tight, her eyes scanning the crowd like she was calculating potential weak spots in the mob formation. If someone gave her a broomstick and half a reason, she’d have cleared the boarding line herself. She didn’t look tired anymore—she looked ready for blood. A small muscle ticked in her temple.

“This,” she muttered, voice low and dangerous, “is how people die. Not from bad weather. From poor queue management.”

Kohaku didn’t even turn around. His eyes were fixed on the fraying edge of the crowd ahead of them, where the shuttle doors remained firmly closed as chaos swelled behind them like rising water. “You want to fight Steve?” he asked casually. “I’ll back you. I’ve got snacks and low morals.”

Kagome raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching. “Steve’s already halfway to the shadow realm. One more neck pillow to the chest and he’s gone.”

In front of them, a man tried to squat down to retrieve his boarding pass, and in doing so, got hip-checked by a woman holding three neck pillows and a thousand-yard stare. Nobody apologized. Nobody even blinked. The man accepted his fate and rolled back into place like a cartoon tumbleweed.

Someone in the crowd shouted, “I don’t care if you’re Platinum Elite, Steve!” and it became instantly apparent that Steve, whoever he was, was about to get publicly humbled.

The mass of travelers surged again, a collective grunt of misery and desperation, and Kagome stumbled forward slightly, bumping into Kohaku’s back. She braced herself against the edge of his backpack with a huff, steadying her balance without apology.

“Humanity is crumbling,” she said, not quite under her breath. “And it smells like Cinnabon and desperation.”

Kohaku glanced over his shoulder just long enough to shoot her a dry look. “Cinnabon’s too innocent for this. This smells like shoe leather and broken dreams.”

They edged forward by inches, the kind of slow progress that felt like punishment for every good decision they’d ever made. The shuttle remained closed. The people continued to inch forward like an angry conga line that had lost its will to dance.

By the time they finally boarded the shuttle, Kagome collapsed into the seat beside Kohaku like the chair owed her severance pay and two years of vacation time. Her blanket fell into her lap in a crumpled heap, her posture melted into a slouch that radiated defeat.

Kohaku reached into his backpack and pulled out a granola bar, peeling the wrapper halfway before offering it to her without a word. She accepted it like it was the last piece of hope in the world. No thanks. No comment. Just a hollow look and a bite that said she’d crossed several personal boundaries in the last three hours and was ready to burn down civilization.

Fifteen minutes of silence and creeping shuttle motion later, they were at the airport hotel check-in desk, standing behind a group of soggy, irate business travelers. Most of them were shouting into Bluetooth headsets or snapping at the poor girl behind the counter, whose eyes had that glassy look of someone who’d seen things no teenager should ever see before legal drinking age.

“Someone’s gonna cry,” Kagome whispered, watching a man with a five o’clock shadow and a LinkedIn attitude pound his fist on the counter like he thought it opened secret VIP doors.

Kohaku nodded, lips pursed. “It’s me. If this hotel doesn’t have wall outlets, I’ll just lay down in the hallway and give up.”

People moved one by one through the line, collecting their hotel vouchers like battlefield rations. Some ran off toward the luggage piles. Others argued over shuttle routes like they were planning a military siege.

Kagome received hers, glanced at the logo, and made a face that could have wilted a plastic plant. “Airport four-star,” she muttered with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner. “So, three stars and a haunted lamp.”

Kohaku looked at his, noted the same uninspired logo, and grinned sidelong at her. “If we die in there, I want it on the record that I let you choose which cursed mini-bar snack kills us.”

She deadpanned. “You’re too good to me.”

The hotel lobby was…trying. Trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t falling apart at the seams. The carpet smelled like industrial cleaner and disappointment. The fake fern near the elevators had tipped over and been left for dead. One bellhop was crying into a walkie-talkie, whispering something about “room 403” like it had personally haunted him. The front desk clerk hiccuped between sentences like she’d been crying since lunch and forgot how to stop.

Meanwhile, across the room, a small pack of influencers had set up a ring light in front of the gasless fireplace, posing like survivors on the last episode of a reality show called Delayed and Deranged. Someone whispered the phrase “vibe break” with complete sincerity.

Kagome didn’t blink.

Because she’d found lunch.

The hotel restaurant was—somehow—open. And better than that, it had alcohol.

She slumped into the booth across from Kohaku with the energy of someone requesting last rites, then flagged the server with the grace of a drowning person reaching for a buoy. “Two margaritas,” she said. “Make them disrespectful.”

Two drinks later, she was halfway through something vaguely curry-adjacent, and the tension in her shoulders had finally started to melt. She ate like someone whose soul was clinging to every bite for survival, spoon scraping against the bottom of the plate with aggressive precision.

Kohaku, seated across from her, nursed his drink and watched with something like fond amusement. His elbow rested against the table, fingers tapping the side of the glass, eyes tracking her movements not like a man judging—but like a man who couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“So,” she said, halfway through a mouthful of rice, “do you travel a lot? Or are you just really into airport chaos as a lifestyle?”

“Sometimes I travel,” he said. “Sometimes I just like being wrapped up by strangers on planes. Keeps things spicy.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m never living that down.”

“You could lean into it,” he suggested. “Rebrand. ‘Kagome Higurashi: Project Manager and Professional In-Flight Cuddler.’ I’d endorse that on LinkedIn.”

She squinted at him over the rim of her glass. “You think this is funny.”

“I think this is iconic,” he said with a grin.

They talked more than either of them expected. About their jobs. About terrible team-building exercises. About meetings that could have been emails and emails that turned into crises. About Zoom fatigue, noise-canceling headphones, and the cruel trick of 2 a.m. deadlines in multiple time zones.

Kagome spoke about Seoul. About the presentation that got cancelled while she was still on the tarmac. About the boss who’d insisted she carry printed slides like it was 1997. Her words came easier with each drink, her posture relaxing with each joke. She stopped correcting herself mid-thought. She stopped adjusting her blazer. For the first time all day, she looked comfortable.

Kohaku didn’t rush to fill silences. He just listened. Occasionally laughed. Tilted his head when she made a particularly sharp observation, as if memorizing the way she phrased things. He didn’t interrupt or flirt or try too hard. He just existed. Present. Attentive. Warm.

At one point, their knees bumped under the table. Neither of them moved.

By the time they returned to the hotel desk, they were both a little warm from tequila and a little giddy from the quiet absurdity of everything. Their eyes were glassy, their steps uneven, their laughter just a little louder than it should have been.

The receptionist looked up as they approached and gave them a tired smile that tried very hard to be professional. “Higurashi, right?” she asked. “And… Kohaku?”

They both nodded.

The receptionist tapped her keyboard. Clicked. Clicked again. Then frowned.

“Alright,” she said slowly. “You’re both on the final guest list. Good news: we have one room left.”

Kagome blinked. “One?”

“One room,” the woman repeated. “Queen bed. Everything else is full. Sorry.”

Kagome turned to Kohaku like a villain in the final act of a mystery novel. Slowly. Suspiciously. “You see what you did?” she said in a deadly calm voice. “Three drinks in and now we’re in a one-bed trope.”

Kohaku held up his hands. “I swear I didn’t plan this.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“But,” he added with mock seriousness, “if we’re following proper romantic structure, we’re now required to argue about it, sleep back-to-back, and wake up tangled in a morally ambiguous spoon.”

The receptionist coughed into her hand. “I…don’t make the beds, if that helps.”

Kagome took the keycard like it was a cursed talisman. “If you snore,” she warned, “I will file a formal complaint.”

Kohaku grinned. “What about mid-sleep cuddling? Should I fill out a waiver?”

“Try it,” she said, turning toward the elevator, “and I’ll Velcro you to the luggage rack.”

They walked in silence for a moment, side by side, their shoulders brushing as they waited for the elevator. Then Kohaku glanced over. “Seriously,” he said, quieter now, “if you’re uncomfortable, I can take the floor.”

Kagome paused.

Then shook her head once. “No. I’ll build a pillow wall. It’s not my first trope rodeo.”

He smiled. “Respect.”

Kohaku didn’t say it aloud, but part of him already knew: he’d take the floor, the wall, the fire escape — whatever it took to make her comfortable. Pillow walls were safer for both of them anyway.

They stepped into the elevator. The doors closed behind them. The soft jazz version of “Don’t Stop Believin’” played from a nearby speaker with unnerving sincerity.

Kagome leaned back against the elevator wall, eyes half-lidded. “Romance novels lied to me,” she muttered. “The one-bed trope never includes curry breath and airport socks.”

Kohaku snorted. “You’re lucky. You didn’t sweat through your hoodie in three different time zones.”

She smirked. “You’re gross.”

“You married gross,” he reminded her.

Her head tipped toward the ceiling. “This might be the dumbest day of my life.”

And without missing a beat, Kohaku replied, “Yeah. But at least it’s not boring.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Liar, Liar, Sleepwear on Fire

Kohaku had gotten into bed with the full intention of being respectful. Mature. Completely hands-off.

That was the plan. The promise. The line he wouldn’t cross.

Above all else, he was going to respect boundaries.

She’d set them—clear, sharp, and absolute. Delivered with the authority of a woman who managed ten people, three vendors, and a looming deadline without blinking. “Keep your hands to yourself.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a law. And honestly, the least he could do after being voluntarily clung to, drooled on, and misidentified as her husband by every third person on that flight.

He’d nodded. Agreed. Quietly told himself that no matter how warm she got, how close, how accidentally intimate—he would not react. He would not assume. He would not let his body betray them both.

But something about brushing his teeth in that dim hotel bathroom, steam on the mirror and silence thick in the room, had him unraveling before she even touched him.

She was in there first—trailing the scent of mint and fresh shampoo, her skin damp, her hair loose and clinging to her collarbone in curling strands. She’d looked soft. Clean. Sleepy. And the oversized shirt she wore hung off one shoulder in a way that should’ve been forgettable—but wasn’t.

He didn’t stare. He didn’t speak. Just nodded politely, grabbed his own things, and disappeared into the steam like a man trying to outrun the devil.

The mirror fogged quickly, saving him from having to look at himself. Good. He didn’t want to see what expression he was making—what heat lived behind his eyes. His hands shook a little as he dried his hair. He tried to chalk it up to exhaustion.

But the truth was—she’d looked at him once in the mirror before leaving the bathroom.

Just once.

And that one look had said something dangerously close to trust.

He returned in neutral armor—plain T-shirt, soft sweatpants, nothing revealing, nothing clingy. Just cotton and control.

When he stepped back into the room, she was already in bed, turned away, tucked into the left side like she’d slept there before. Her back was a soft curve beneath the covers. One hand curled under her cheek. Her breathing already slow.

She looked peaceful. Safe.

Like the world couldn’t touch her here.

They exchanged tired pleasantries, dimmed the lights, and climbed into bed like strangers forced into sitcom proximity. Two adults. Two professionals. Room-sharing thanks to airline chaos and a voucher system powered by cruelty and misfortune.

There was a pillow wall between them—her doing. Strategic. Defensive. He respected it.

For about three minutes, Kohaku thought: Okay. This will be fine.

It wasn’t.

Because Kagome Higurashi was a liar. She had made the rules. And then—within minutes—proceeded to break every single one.

She fell asleep like it was her superpower. One sigh, one shift, and she was gone. No tossing. No turning. Just a deep breath and then stillness.

Until it began.

Five minutes in, she turned.

Not a roll. Not a fumble. Just a slow, deliberate tilt of her body—like her spine knew where he was before her brain did. Her leg stretched toward him beneath the covers. Her arm followed. A soft, innocent reach. And suddenly, she wasn’t just facing him. She was angled toward him. Like he was safe harbor.

He stared at the ceiling and pretended not to feel it.

It’s sleep, he told himself. She’s exhausted. It’s nothing.

Ten minutes in, her fingers found his shirt.

Just one hand at first. Then two.

She curled into the fabric slowly, clutching a wrinkle at the hem like it had always belonged to her. Her knuckles brushed his chest through the thin cotton—gentle. Barely there. But he felt every inch of it. And it burned.

Fifteen minutes in, her thigh landed across his.

Not near. Not beside.

Over.

Her bare thigh dragged across the sheet and settled hot against his leg, heat seeping through his sweatpants like a slow fuse. Her knee nudged up, brushing his hip. Her toes tucked under his shin. Her entire lower body curled into him like she’d done this a hundred times before.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe properly.

Hands locked over his stomach like he was trying to meditate through a hurricane. Just sleep, he reminded himself. Nothing intentional.

But her skin was bare. Warm.

She’d said it herself—half-laughing as she emerged from the bathroom. “Too tired for pants. Don’t be weird about it.”

He was trying so hard not to be weird about it.

Trying not to think about the line of her thigh, the soft dip of her waist, the heat of her breath when she sighed.

Twenty minutes in—she scooted closer.

The pillow wall? Shoved to the foot of the bed. A casualty.

She moved like water, filling the space between them without force. Her forehead bumped his shoulder. Her breath warmed the curve of his neck. Her arm slipped beneath his ribs and curled there, loose but present. Her thigh hugged his more firmly now, anchoring herself to him like gravity had shifted.

His heart pounded.

He told himself he wasn’t going to look. Wasn’t going to touch. Wasn’t going to let his hands do anything but stay still.

He wondered how little sleep she’d gotten to be like this. How many nights she passed out in hotel rooms, on flights, in cabs—with the weight of a world that clearly didn’t take care of her.

And how broken down must she be, to cling to him like this. To reach for him as if her body trusted what her mind hadn’t processed yet.

Thirty minutes in, her hand slipped beneath his shirt. Just her fingertips. Just a few inches.

But it lit his nerves like a fuse. Her nails grazed his skin near his ribs. Her palm settled tentatively against his stomach, skin to skin. Soft. Warm. Unprotected.

He swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling harder.

She sighed—so gently—and her entire chest pressed against his side now, one breath at a time.

And then she mumbled.

“…Jason didn’t even check the deck…”

Her voice was muffled, angry, and pressed against his neck.

He blinked.

“…not my job to babysit…”

Her lips moved against his skin.

“…god, why is the printer wet…”

He choked on a laugh that never fully escaped. It buzzed in his throat like static, electric and strained. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe he was a living body pillow for a furious, exhausted project manager mid-burnout breakdown.

She didn’t know. She had no idea.

She’d clung to him in a plane. In a bed. In sleep. But never on purpose. Never with awareness. And that’s what killed him most.

Not the heat of her body. Not the brush of her skin. But the fact that some part of her trusted him enough to let go.

She sighed again, softer now. Her grip on his shirt loosening. Her hand drifting lower across his stomach before stopping. Settling.

And Kohaku—the man with the hard cock, the locked jaw, the burning lungs, and the dying resolve—realized with devastating clarity:

Kagome Higurashi slept better wrapped around him than she ever did alone.

And that realization? Was going to kill him.
 
Worse—he wasn’t even sure he wanted to survive it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Hands, Rules, and the Hypocrisy of Higurashi

One hour. That was how long Kohaku lay in bed, motionless, with a woman pressed full-body against him and the entire weight of temptation in her sleep-drenched limbs.

Sixty minutes of tactical breathing and absolute stillness, of pretending he was anywhere else but here—flat on his back, hard as stone, and half-draped in the heat of Kagome Higurashi. Her leg was slung over his like it belonged there, one hand tucked beneath his shirt with fingers splayed across his abdomen, the other twisted into the fabric near his chest. Her face—unfairly serene—rested against the curve of his throat. Every few breaths, her lips brushed his collarbone.

And none of it had been intentional.

She’d passed out fast—like her body knew how to shut down in stages the moment it found safety. As if she’d done this before. As if she’d had to. There was a difference between someone who fell asleep and someone whose body crashed. Kagome hadn’t drifted. She’d folded. Tumbled. Gone under with the helpless surrender of someone who didn’t remember what it felt like to rest without flinching.

It was beautiful. And awful. Because he knew she didn’t mean to touch him like this. She didn’t mean to make him feel like this. But her instincts had chosen him anyway. And now he was drowning in the aftermath.

She was fast asleep. Blissed out. Deep in a dream that clearly had no memory of the “keep your hands to yourself” rule she had laid down only hours earlier. And yet, here she was—violating her own policy with the casual grace of someone who’d made this bed her entire life. There was nothing shy about the way she clung. Nothing hesitant in the way her body curled against his, her chest warm against his side, her hips tucked so close they shared the same inhale.

He stared at the ceiling, every breath a calculated act of survival, trying to decide which ancient crime he was paying for. Was it the time he broke his sister’s window and blamed the wind? Was this karmic retribution for his one-night stand with a demoness who’d hexed his favorite jacket? Or maybe this was just the universe deciding to see how far his self-control could stretch before snapping like an overdrawn bowstring.

And then—

She huffed.

Not a sigh. Not a shift.

A frustrated little puff of air through her nose, followed by the sluggish drag of her mouth across his neck and a grumble that made his spine lock up.

“Nice face,” she mumbled, half slur, half smirk, like her subconscious had decided to deliver a performance review. “But hands could do better.”

He blinked. His brain flatlined.

She was flirting with him.

In her sleep.

Sleep-flirting, sleep-grinding, and now sleep-judging his passivity.

His gaze flicked down—only his eyes, because he wasn’t about to startle her with any movement—and that’s when he noticed her fingers had left his stomach. They’d traveled further up. Into his hair.

When had that happened?

He hadn’t even noticed.

But now those same fingers slowly slid down the nape of his neck, dragging a slow, warm trail, and pulled. Not hard. Not demanding. Just enough to nestle herself impossibly closer.

Her breath hitched slightly against his throat—just a tremor of sound—and he swore it wasn’t just the dream anymore. Her fingers curled again, nestling at the base of his skull like she knew exactly what she was holding.

Her body shifted in response. Breasts—soft and full beneath the thin drape of that oversized shirt—pressed to his chest. Her thigh hooked higher, sliding snug between his legs, and her breath deepened like she was nuzzling into a dream made of heat and comfort and him. Her arm curled around him with the sleepy confidence of a woman in a long-term relationship, like this was their nightly ritual and not the result of a missed Tokyo landing and one misallocated hotel room.

It wasn’t just intimacy. It was domesticity. Like her body remembered something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

And then her other hand—previously asleep at his waist—began to move.

Down. Slowly. With the maddening deliberation of water rolling over skin. From his abs to the elastic hem of his sweatpants.

She didn’t slip beneath. Not yet. But her palm pressed over the waistband, resting there like a question, like her dream was waiting for a yes from someone she didn’t realize was still very much awake.

Kohaku’s soul left his body. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t twitch.

His cock, already hard, gave a traitorous throb beneath the cotton.

He wanted to move her. He really did. He should have.

Should’ve taken her wrist and shifted it back to safety. Should’ve whispered her name gently, reminded her this wasn’t the flight anymore. They weren’t strangers in a dream—this was real, and her rules had been clear.

But then—

Her hand stopped. Stayed. Fingers curled against his waistband, still above the fabric, not pushing lower. Just resting.

Then, with all the self-pity of a woman annoyed at the underperformance of her own hallucinations, she muttered, “Hands don’t even move. No head pats, Higurashi.”

Kohaku almost choked.

No head pats?

Was she—complaining?

After turning him into her human body pillow? After drooling on him, curling into his ribs like a warm, exhausted vine, dragging her thigh between his legs and judging his lack of handsy encouragement?

She was mad he wasn’t touching her?

He scoffed silently. One short puff of air through his nose. Not a laugh—he wasn’t that reckless—but something damn close. A reaction born of awe and disbelief. She was asleep, halfway to second base, and annoyed that her dream version of him wasn’t being more accommodating.

Kagome Higurashi, his temporary travel wife and fully unconscious siren, was breaking every rule she’d made—and filing a formal complaint while doing it.

He should’ve been angry.

But all he could feel was the burning thrum of her body pressing into his. The slow, subtle grind of her knee. The heat of her breath. And the ache in his chest, in his cock, in his hands that had nowhere to go but stay still.

This was a test. A trial.

He was a good man.

But he was also a man with a gorgeous, half-naked woman on top of him, sighing into his throat and muttering about how his imaginary hands weren’t doing enough.

And then—

Her hips twitched.

Just once.

A small, searching roll.

And Kohaku went perfectly still. Because he felt it. Felt what she was trying to do. Felt her body chase it.

Felt the way her core pressed against his thigh, damp and bare beneath that thin shirt. Her breath hitched just slightly. Her fingers flexed where they still rested at his waistband.

She moved again. Another slow, subtle grind. And that was when he knew.

She was seeking friction.

Her body needed release. And she was using him to get it. Still asleep. Still unaware. Still entirely within the protective blur of dreaming.

But her hips told the truth.

Her body wanted it. And his? Gods. He wanted it too.

But he didn’t move. Not his hands. Not his lips. Not even to guide her. He just shifted his thigh—barely—a soft lift, an angle change, just enough to help.

To make it easier.

To give her what she was looking for without crossing the line she hadn’t given him permission to step over.

And when she sighed and pressed closer? When her hips began to grind again, slow and greedy?

He stayed still. Let her take what she needed. And braced himself for the moment she’d start to come undone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: The Panic, The Pillow Wall, and The Accidental D

Kohaku knew the exact second she began to wake up.

It wasn’t dramatic. No sharp intake of breath or sudden lurch. Just a change—subtle and slow. The kind of shift you didn’t hear, but felt. Her breath, which had been deep and rhythmic, hitched ever so slightly. Her fingers, which had been lax and open, curled minutely—like her body was surfacing from some deep subconscious ocean and stretching toward the air above.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t exhale.

He knew better.

Because whatever was about to happen next? It was going to be a catastrophe.

He braced himself.

And sure enough, it began.

The realization hit her in stages. Like a spreadsheet auto-filling disaster cell by cell. He felt it. The first flicker of tension in her body. The slight jerk of her hips. The way her palm, still settled dangerously low on his stomach, froze in place—fingertips brushing the elastic hem of his pants like they’d just remembered gravity existed.

Then came the breath.

Sharp. Mortified. Sucked in through her nose like a woman suddenly realizing she had violated every single HR policy on Earth.

He nearly laughed.

But he didn’t.

Because gods, if he was her right now, he’d never recover. He’d change his name. Abandon his phone. Flee to a remote village where no one ever spoke of “body pillows” or “sleep-grinding” or accidental second base at 3:07 a.m.

So he did what any noble man would do.

He pretended to be asleep.

A martyr. A hero. A stone-faced, slack-jawed, absolutely conscious liar with a throbbing erection and the acting chops of a deity.

He heard her swallow.

Felt the panicked twitch of her thigh.

Her fingers tensed where they were still curled in the fabric of his shirt, clearly realizing they had touched skin, lingered, and possibly—gods help them—explored.

She shifted. Just barely. The kind of microscopic scoot a person does when they want to move but are terrified of waking a bear.

Her leg dragged across his. Her thigh brushed his hip. Her knee slid south—trying to untangle from whatever unholy pretzel she’d made of herself in the night—and that was when it happened.

She touched it.

Not a graze.

Not an accidental brush.

Contact.

Her hand, already low from its traitorous drift, flinched sideways in a panic—and landed. Full palm. Right on his cock. Through the fabric. Firm. Direct.

Both of them froze.

Time stopped.

The gods turned away.

Her fingers didn’t even twitch at first. Like her brain hadn’t fully accepted what just happened. Like her palm couldn’t possibly be where it was. As if the warm, very real, very impressively solid ridge under her hand was something else. A rolled-up sock. A hotel pen. A betrayal of the laws of physics.

And Kohaku?

Kohaku ascended.

Not in a good way. Not in a holy way.

In a my soul just left my body and I can no longer exist on this plane of reality kind of way.

He had to bite the inside of his cheek. Hard. A deep, brutal pinch of flesh just to keep from making a sound. Because every inch of his nervous system was screaming. Because her hand was still there, frozen in panic, and the heat of her palm was searing through the thin cotton of his sweatpants like divine punishment.

He felt her pulse in her fingertips.

Felt the moment her body realized exactly what she’d done.

And then—

Panic.

Violent, flailing panic.

She jerked back so fast she lost balance entirely. One leg tangled in the sheet. The other slammed into the discarded pillow wall like it might save her. Her elbow caught nothing but air. Her weight shifted. Gravity roared.

And then Kagome Higurashi—the sharp-tongued, iron-willed, pants-optional disaster of his dreams—fell out of bed.

Spectacularly.

With a muffled yelp and a thud loud enough to wake the entire Kyoto airport.

That, Kohaku decided, was his cue.

He blinked slowly. Rolled his head to the side like someone waking up from the best sleep of their life, and let his voice drop into the perfect blend of sleepy concern and practiced innocence.

“…Kagome?”

Silence.

Then a breathless, gasping shuffle from the floor. A rustle of sheets. A sharp, frantic curse.

“Kagome?” he repeated, brow furrowed now, as if only just registering that his human-sized weighted blanket had vanished. “Everything okay?”

“Fine!” she snapped, too fast. “I’m fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. The room is fine. Life is fine.”

He sat up slightly, dragging a hand through his hair and squinting into the dark with all the sincerity of a man who definitely didn’t just have his dick palmed by a sleep-addled project manager and watched her cartwheel off the mattress like a startled cat.

“You fell.”

“I slipped,” she hissed from somewhere near the minibar. “On—on a sock.”

“…My sock?”

“Your sock is treacherous.”

He tried not to smile.

It didn’t work.

“Kagome,” he said, tone softening now. Gentle. The kind of voice you use when someone’s pride has shattered into a thousand flaming pieces. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

There was a pause.

A beat.

Then a strangled, breathless, “I have to pee,” followed by the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut.

Kohaku collapsed backward onto the mattress, both hands dragging down his face, and laughed.

Quietly.

Desperately.

Because he didn’t want to humiliate her. He didn’t want to make it worse. But gods above—he’d just survived being sleep-humped, sleep-groped, and then accidentally molested by a woman who had spent the entire previous day insisting on firm boundaries and strict pillow protocol.

And now she was locked in the bathroom, probably planning to drown herself in the sink out of shame.

He exhaled, long and low.

And whispered into the dark:

“…Best fucking layover of my life.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: The Bathroom Exile and the Erection That Would Not Die

Kohaku POV

The bathroom light bled beneath the door like guilt under a spotlight.

Kohaku lay motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the gentle hum of the hotel HVAC system and the not-so-gentle chaos taking place just ten feet away behind a locked slab of painted wood. The fan inside the bathroom had clicked on automatically when she flipped the switch—loud, whirring, overcompensating for the silence. He could still hear her. The muffled shuffle of bare feet. The soft thud of something—probably her palm—hitting the sink. Then water. Not a shower. Not full-on faucet therapy. Just a quick splash. A desperate rinse. Probably her face. Probably trying to wipe away the embarrassment like it hadn’t just crawled down her spine and nested behind her ribcage.

He hadn’t moved since she slammed the door. Not because he didn’t want to. 

But because he couldn’t. Not with the current state of his body. Not with the iron-hard, traitorous erection still very much alive and well beneath the thin cotton of his sweatpants. It pulsed like a reminder. Like a threat. Like a fully awake, deeply offended soldier demanding reparations for being publicly humiliated, manhandled, and then abandoned on a cold mattress.

Kohaku exhaled slowly.

There was something deeply unholy about being aroused by accident. Not because he was trying to be inappropriate. Not because he’d done anything but stay perfectly still while a half-naked, sleep-flushed goddess ground herself against his thigh like a human furnace and mumbled workplace grievances into his neck.

He hadn’t moved.

She had.

But gods, did that matter now?

No.

Because she was in the bathroom.

And he was still hard. Still aching. Still trying not to think about the way her hand had landed right on him in that moment of panic, warm and firm and so fucking soft. Still trying not to think about the hitch in her breath. The way her lips had ghosted his collarbone. The way she’d tried to escape him like her soul was on fire.

And he—stone-cold bastard that he was—wanted her back.

Not for sex.

Not even for some fantasy-fueled grinding encore.

He just wanted her body close again. That heat. That breath. That unconscious trust. It had been years since anyone clung to him like that without expectation or calculation. Since someone folded against him like he was a refuge and not a risk.

And now she was hiding in a hotel bathroom because her dream-grind turned into a horror story.

He closed his eyes. Listened. 

There was a moment of silence.

Then—softly—the unmistakable sound of her muttering to herself.

Kagome Higurashi, Project Manager and Current Hotel Prisoner, was spiraling.

He caught snippets.

“…stupid thighs…what was I even dreaming about—was that a neck? Did I bite him?”

A soft thump. Something—her hip? Her forehead?—smacked against the doorframe.

He bit his cheek to suppress the laugh bubbling up.

“…god, did I moan? Did he moan? Was that me or him? Fuck, what if it was both—oh my god, kill me.”

Another splash of water.

More muttering.

“…who does that? Who grinds in their sleep like a damn feral cat? Who grabs—grabs—someone’s dick and then yeets off the bed like a Final Destination character?”

Kohaku coughed—once—into his fist, just to ground himself. Just to stay human. Because he couldn’t deal with how funny, tragic, and brutally endearing she was at the same time.

Still, her voice quieted after that. Long pause. Maybe she sat down. Maybe slid to the floor with her back to the door like a shamed anime protagonist. He imagined her there. Knees pulled to her chest. Face buried. Dignity scattered like confetti.

Part of him—the responsible part—knew he should say something.

Reassure her. Break the tension. Offer a joke, a lifeline, something.

But another part—the part still painfully hard, still humming with the ghost of her thighs—was scared shitless.

Because what if she came out and couldn’t look at him?

What if this was the moment it all turned?

The flight, the shuttle, the blanket, the banter—the accidental intimacy of being mistaken for her husband by a flight attendant who knew exactly what he was doing—it had all built to something. A rhythm. A connection that didn’t feel random anymore.

But now?

Now they were two strangers divided by one accidental handjob and a locked bathroom door.

He sighed again. Stared at the ceiling. Debated his options.

Option one: Pretend to fall asleep. Let her come out when she’s ready. Let her think he was asleep through all of it. That he didn’t feel her lips on his neck. That he wasn’t half a breath away from bucking into her hand when she touched him.

Option two: Knock. Gently. Say her name. Ask if she’s okay. Use that soft, deep voice that made people confess things they didn’t mean to. Offer her comfort. Invite her back to bed—platonically, respectfully, with all the lies he could manage.

Option three: Set himself on fire and spare them both.

The fan in the bathroom kicked up again. He heard her curse under her breath.

He flexed his hands over his face, groaned into the mattress, and decided—reluctantly—on Option Two.

Because if she was in there much longer, she was going to talk herself out of everything. Out of trust. Out of the evening. Out of ever looking him in the eye again.

And he—gods help him—wanted to look her in the eye.

Wanted her to see that he wasn’t angry. That he wasn’t turned off or freaked out or planning to run.

Wanted her to know that yeah, she touched his dick, and yeah, it was maybe the highlight of his month, but more than that—he missed her warmth.

Her presence. Her fucking breath on his collarbone. He sat up slowly. Feet hit the floor.

He walked toward the bathroom door, stopping just short.

Lifted his hand.

Knocked—once. Softly.

“Kagome,” he murmured. “You okay?”

Silence.

Then a rustle. Another curse.

Then her voice—small, muffled, and full of murderous shame:

“…I am never coming out. This is my home now. I live here. Tell my boss I died.”

Kohaku smiled—quiet, pained, aching—and let his forehead rest gently against the doorframe.

“…I liked it better when you were snoring into my neck.”

A pause.

A beat.

Then—

“I will climb out this window.”

He huffed a laugh. Let it sink in. Let her have it.

Then backed away. Returned to bed. And left the light on. Just in case she changed her mind.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: The Return of the Bed Goblin
Kohaku POV

The bed was colder without her.

That was the first thing Kohaku realized as he slid back beneath the covers and lay flat on his back, cock still hard, thoughts still a riot, and the bathroom door still firmly closed. The second thing he realized was that sleep—real, restful, dreamless sleep—had left the building the moment Kagome Higurashi’s palm had landed on his dick like a goddamn accidental curse.

He closed his eyes anyway. Tried to slow his breathing. Tried to remember how to be a normal person with normal boundaries and normal blood flow. But his body had betrayed him hours ago, and his brain was no help. It wouldn’t stop replaying it—the heat of her skin, the weight of her thigh, the breathy mutter of, “hands don’t even move,” like his real-life, painfully restrained self had personally failed her fantasy.

He groaned into the pillow, low and desperate.
Forty minutes passed. He heard every second.

The bathroom door finally creaked open at 4:12 a.m.

Soft. Hesitant. The kind of opening you do when you’re trying to sneak out of your own shame. He didn’t lift his head. Didn’t move a muscle. Just slowed his breathing and kept his face turned slightly toward the wall, one arm above the covers, the other loosely slung across his stomach.

He heard her hesitate.

A long pause. Then the shuffle of bare feet on carpet.

Then her voice. Quiet. Muted. Raw.

“…I can’t sleep on the floor. The floor is disgusting. I’m not a feral raccoon. I have standards.”

Another step closer. Then a sigh.

“…but I can’t get back in bed. I groped a man in his sleep. That’s…that’s prison behavior. That’s cancelable behavior. I’m a lawsuit with bangs.”

Kohaku nearly broke. The corner of his lip twitched—but he kept the performance. Still. Steady. Not a flicker.

She groaned. A soft, drawn-out sound of existential collapse.

“I can’t believe I did that. I touched it. I grabbed it. Involuntarily. Who even does that? What is wrong with my hands? Am I possessed?”

Closer now. He could hear her toes curl into the carpet. Could feel the shift in air pressure as she hovered near the edge of the mattress, probably trying to determine if she could slink into bed without ever facing him again.

“I should just sleep in the tub,” she whispered. “I deserve the tub. The tub and eternal damnation.”

She inched forward.

Closer.

Closer still.

He felt it—the moment her weight leaned over the edge, just enough to peek, to see if his eyes were shut, if his breathing was steady. She was probably squinting. Trying to detect the subtle signs of man faking unconsciousness because he knows you’re spiraling.

He gave her nothing. No twitch. No blink. 

Perfect, serene, Oscar-worthy sleep.

Until—

Her hand touched the sheet near his elbow. Just a graze. A test.

And that’s when he struck.

He moved fast—but slow enough to be sleepy. One hand lifted and caught hers—gently but firmly—fingers wrapping around hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She froze. Solid. Air punched from her lungs in a startled gasp.

He turned his head slightly, eyes still closed, voice low and rough with the kind of fake-sleepy that sounded devastatingly real.

“…go back to sleep, beautiful,” he murmured.

Then pulled her down.

Hard enough that she fell—softly, gracelessly—right onto his chest with a startled “huhff” that puffed against his throat. One leg half-slid onto the mattress. One hand braced against his ribs. Her hair tickled his jaw. She tensed like a woman caught in the act of breaking into her own crime scene.

He didn’t give her time to panic.

“Shhh,” he said, gently but with authority. “Trying to sleep.”

“But—”

His arm curled around her back. Possessive. Lazy. Not demanding, but undeniably there.

“I can’t sleep until you’re back in the bed,” he muttered. “Stop wandering.”

“But I—”

“Shhhh.” A little firmer this time. “’S bedtime.”

Then—just for good measure—he turned his head and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Soft. Slow. Like they’d been doing this for years. Like he kissed her to sleep every night after arguing about who left the toothpaste cap off.

She made a noise.

A noise he could only describe as a whimper. High, strangled, involuntary.

Then he felt her hand fly up and slap over her own mouth. A sharp hiss of “fuck,” muffled behind fingers, followed by a grumble so low it buzzed against his collarbone.

“Get under the covers,” he whispered. “You’ll freeze out there.”

Another curse. Another grumble.

She rolled—slowly, reluctantly, like someone yielding to dark forces—and crawled fully onto the bed. Under the blanket. Every motion screamed defeat. But not the bad kind. Not the mortified kind. The kind where she knew she’d been bested and didn’t have the energy to fight it.

He didn’t smile. Not outwardly. But his whole chest buzzed with satisfaction.

Then—just when she settled in her quadrant of the mattress, ten inches away, clutching a pillow like a lifeline—

“Closer,” he mumbled.

She hissed.

“You’re asleep,” she muttered. “You can’t command things in your sleep.”

“’S cold,” he argued, muffled into the pillow. “M’tired. C’mere.”

A full three seconds of silence.

Then: a sharp huff. But she moved.

Inched closer. One shuffle. Then another. Until her back grazed his side.

He lifted his arm—slowly—and draped it around her waist. Not tightly. Not forcefully. Just an invitation. An anchor.

She let him. Tense at first. Then soft.

Then slowly, unbelievably, she melted. Like a panicked little rabbit finally realizing the fox wasn’t hungry.

And gods, he wasn’t. Not for that.

He just wanted her here. Warm. Breathing. Safe. He nuzzled his face into her hair. Pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck—light, warm, barely there.

And whispered against her skin:

“Time for bed.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But he felt her sigh. Felt the fight go out of her. Felt her hand reach for his wrist beneath the covers, curling gently around it. Just once.

Like she needed something to hold. And that, more than anything, almost broke him. So he stayed quiet.

Held her.

And finally—finally—let himself sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: Guilt, Hair Petting, and Other Emergency Sleep Protocols
Kohaku POV

Kohaku must have dozed off. He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened, but he woke with a start—still wrapped around her, still warm, still hard as hell and half tangled in limbs and blankets that felt far too good for a night of airline-induced suffering.

It couldn’t have been long. Ten minutes, maybe? Fifteen tops. The room was still dim, the bathroom light off now, the hum of the HVAC still rolling like lazy thunder across the ceiling. His arm had gone a little numb from where it curled around her waist, and his cheek itched from where her hair tickled it. He blinked, adjusted his head slightly, and inhaled the scent of her—shampoo, skin, and something a little sharper, like nerves strung too tight.

And that’s when he realized. She was still awake. Not shifting or squirming or subtly adjusting the blankets like someone on the edge of unconsciousness.

No. She was awake.
Wide awake.
And spiraling.

He didn’t hear her voice. Not this time. No whispered monologue. No verbal spiral about dignity or the wrath of god. But her body said everything. The tension in her back. The way her hand flexed slightly against the pillow. The occasional stuttering inhale, as if she wanted to sigh but was trying not to wake him up.

Gods.

He’d kissed her neck and whispered her to sleep like some sleepy, smug wolf in flannel, and the whole time she’d just laid there, vibrating with shame under his arm like a socially anxious tea kettle.

He almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, he kept his eyes closed and let his voice slide out low, quiet, half-slurred like someone drifting back into a dream.

“I know you’re awake.”

The body under his arm tensed like a deer caught mid-crime. He didn’t move. Just let the words hang there.

“I can feel you spiraling,” he added, quieter now. “What can I do?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I’m fine,” she lied.

It was a bad lie. Worse than usual. Barely even an attempt. The kind of lie you tell when you desperately don’t want someone to look too closely.

Kohaku gave her a small, sleepy sigh. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” he said softly. “You’re fine. Totally normal behavior. Awake. Rigid. Pretending to be dead. Like a possum.”

She groaned into the pillow.

“I’m apologizing to the gods,” she muttered.

“For what?” he asked, keeping his tone light. “The part where you tried to escape through the bathroom fan? Or the part where you threatened to marry the floor?”

“…Everything.”

She said it so quietly. So honestly.

Not even sarcastic. Just defeated.

And that…that broke something small and soft in his chest.

He sat up slowly, careful not to jostle her too much. Slid the blankets off his chest, then turned toward her and bent low.

“C’mere.”

She tensed.

“What—why?”

“Just come here,” he said, already reaching.

She resisted, just barely, squirming like a woman preparing to be scolded or teased or buried alive in a grave made of her own shame. “I don’t—what are you doing—”

“Helping you.”

And then he pulled.

Not hard. Not sudden. Just steady and unrelenting.

He sat back against the headboard and brought her with him, hands warm on her waist as he maneuvered her onto his lap, her back pressed against his chest, her legs folded loosely across the bed. She was stiff. Bracing. Every muscle broadcasting nope, this is too much, abort, this is intimacy, I’m not emotionally certified for this ride.

Kohaku slid one hand into her hair and began to gently, slowly play with it. Fingers twisting strands. Smoothing knots. Nails skimming the base of her scalp in long, practiced motions.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice low in her ear. “I’m helping you.”

Her breath caught.

“This isn’t—this isn’t how people sleep,” she said weakly.

“This is how you sleep,” he countered, still calm, still slow. “Clinging. Shaming entire bloodlines with sleep-office rants.”

She tried to twist away. He tightened his arm slightly.

“Nope. We’re here now.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“We’re adults,” he said, gently brushing her hair back from her cheek. “We can sleep in the same bed without panic. Without guilt. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not mad. I’m not uncomfortable. I’m not judging you.”

She didn’t answer. So he leaned in, mouth close to her temple.

“Let me calm you down. Let me help you fall asleep. Because I swear to the gods, if you spiral yourself into another three a.m. flight from the bed, I’m going to have to start wearing protective gear.”

She made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Something caught in the middle.

“You’re being weirdly kind,” she muttered, head tilting slightly as his fingers worked behind her ear. “You’re so nice about this and it makes me feel worse.”

He snorted softly against her skin.

“Shame spiral logic,” he said. “You’re not allowed to have a meltdown because I’m not joining you?”

“Yes,” she said immediately.

“Well too bad.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. Gentle. Warm. Then another to the shell of her ear.

“I’m here. You’re safe. You’re not weird. You’re tired. And the only crime you’ve committed is making me cuddle you in my sleep until I dreamed about HR violations.”

That got a laugh. Sharp and sudden. She slapped a hand over her mouth, scandalized, but he felt her relax. Just a little.

He lowered them both back against the pillows. Kept his arms around her. Kept stroking her hair. She didn’t fight him again.

After the initial protest—soft and half-hearted, like she didn’t know if she was arguing with him or herself—Kagome let him pull her fully against his chest, legs folding in as he cradled her in his lap like something he wasn’t willing to let go of. The heat of her body soaked into him. Bare thighs against his sweatpants. That thin, oversized shirt falling off one shoulder. The back of her neck warm where it met his collarbone.

Kohaku shifted, just slightly, letting her settle deeper into the cradle of his lap. One arm around her waist, the other already buried in her hair. He took his time, fingers threading through those dark strands with a rhythm so slow it felt indulgent. Reverent. Not messy petting. Not half-assed comfort. This was focused. Deliberate. He treated her like something delicate. Not fragile, not weak—just rare.

The pads of his fingers stroked her scalp in soft, looping circles. Down the nape of her neck. Behind her ear. A thumb ghosted across her temple. She made a small sound—nothing verbal, just a breath that caught and dragged like her lungs hadn’t decided whether to hold onto it or let it go.

Then—slowly—her body began to yield.

It didn’t collapse. She wasn’t the type to crumble. But she sank. That ever-present tension along her spine eased in quiet, invisible notches. Her weight shifted more fully into his chest. Her shoulders stopped bracing. Her fingers, once fisted into the hem of his shirt like she was preparing for another emergency escape, slowly relaxed.

She let him hold her. And gods, that was everything.

She let him soothe her without apology. No distance. No sarcasm. No weaponized awkwardness or buffer of pride. Just soft breath. Warm skin. Quiet trust.

Kohaku’s fingers moved lazily, dragging down through her hair again, spreading it over her back like ink across a canvas. The strands caught on his knuckles and slipped free like silk. Every pass drew a different sound out of her—a soft inhale, a barely-there sigh, a hum so low it buzzed against his ribs.

And then—A whimper. Tiny. Instinctual. The kind of sound a woman makes when she forgets she’s trying to stay composed.

His hand stilled for a beat, his body tightening beneath her, then resumed—slower now. He brushed his mouth against the crown of her head, lips pressed to the part in her hair.

Her thighs shifted slightly, and he adjusted to keep her balanced, arm tightening again around her waist. She made another soft noise. A sleepy exhale that almost sounded content. The kind of sound that made a man imagine things. Dangerous, warm, domestic things—like waking up in the same bed on a Sunday morning, her hair in his face, her legs over his, coffee cooling on the nightstand.

He shouldn’t think like that.

But here she was.

And then, when he thought she’d gone fully quiet, her breath caught once more. She murmured something into his chest. So soft he almost didn’t catch it. But then it came again. A sleepy sigh. Slurred. Unfiltered.

“…Kohaku…”

His name. Whispered like a prayer. Like she didn’t know she was saying it.

And fuck, he nearly lost it. He shut his eyes. Tight. Tighter. Breathed through his nose and kissed her hair again like it would ground him.

Because that sound—his name from her mouth in that breathless, sleepy hush—had gone straight to the part of him that ached. Not his cock, though that was certainly awake and paying attention. No, it went deeper. Lower. Into the chest. Into the gut. Into the quiet part of his soul that had never heard his name said like that before.

She was nearly asleep now. Her breathing slower. Her body fully molded to his. One of her hands had crept up to his chest, fingers curled loosely over his shirt like an anchor.

He tilted his head and whispered into her hair.

“Good girl.”

She exhaled. And this time, it didn’t hitch.

He kept stroking her hair. Slow. Steady. Gentle. Until her breathing evened out for real. Until her body went heavy in the best way. Until she stopped holding herself up.

He kissed her again, this time behind her ear.

“You can rest now,” he murmured, barely audible.

And she did. She sighed his name one last time.

And finally—finally—fell asleep in his arms.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: The Softest Place I’ve Ever Been
Kohaku POV

Kohaku didn’t sleep.

Not a minute. Not a breath deeper than a blink.

Not because he was uncomfortable—gods no. Not because of the slowly fading ache in his cock or the strange geometry of having a woman fully draped over his lap for hours. No. He stayed awake because he wanted to. Because somewhere between the first sigh she gave and the last whisper of his name against his chest, he realized something horrifyingly gentle:

He didn’t want to miss a single second of this.

Not her breathing. Not the warmth of her bare thighs tucked along the outside of his. Not the subtle shift of her hips when she dreamed—twitchy, sleepy, full of that intimate vulnerability people only gave when they didn’t know they were giving it.

So he stayed still.

And stroked her hair.

All night.

His hand never stopped moving. Up, down. Fingers through her scalp, trailing along the column of her neck, skimming her arm where it curled against his stomach. Sometimes he traced slow circles over her shoulder, letting the pad of his thumb drift over the exposed slope where her oversized shirt had slipped down again. Sometimes he slid his palm across the flat of her back, slow enough that it didn’t wake her, but firm enough that it grounded her.

And gods, the sounds she made.

Tiny ones. Barely-there hums that vibrated softly into his skin. A sigh. A whimper. A little huff of breath whenever he paused for too long, like even in sleep, she needed that contact.

He found himself whispering to her once, somewhere around four a.m.

“Still here,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I’ve got you.”

She sighed again.

And he stayed.

Time passed in warm, slow increments. The kind of hours that didn’t count because they weren’t being lived—they were being held. And Kohaku held them carefully. As if any sound might break the spell.

It wasn’t until well after dawn that his phone buzzed.

At first, he ignored it. Barely noticed. He had one arm fully around Kagome’s waist now, the other resting just beneath her knees. She’d shifted in her sleep, curling further into him, her hand now resting over his heart like she was holding it in place.

But then the buzzing came again—persistent.

A call.

He glanced down without moving his arm.

Sango.

Of course.

He accepted the call, pressed the phone to his ear, and whispered so quietly he was nearly mouthing it.

“Busy.”

A beat of silence on the other end. Then—

“What the hell could you possibly be doing this early—?”

A sudden whimper from Kagome. Quiet. But needy. Her hand shifted slightly, searching, as if the loss of his attention had tugged at her.

He immediately returned his hand to her back. Stroked once, gently.

She settled.

But it was too late.

“…Kohaku,” Sango said slowly. “Who the fuck was that?”

He sighed. Whispered again.

“Text, Sango. Please.”

“Was that a girl? At this hour? In your bed?! Who are you?!”

“I’m hanging up now,” he said, still soft. “Text if it’s an emergency.”

He ended the call.

The next buzz came seconds later.

[Sango]

I will kill you if you don’t tell me who she is.

[Sango]

Is she still in your bed??? Why did she sound like a damn kitten???

[Sango]

Kohaku. KOH. AKU. You are NOT allowed to be soft before I get to meet the reason.

He smiled down at the top of Kagome’s head, brushed another slow stroke down her back, and didn’t reply.

Because none of those messages had an answer that felt…right.

Because he didn’t even know what to call this.

And still—still—he couldn’t stop touching her.

Every time his hand stilled for too long, she stirred. Just slightly. A frown. A little breathless shift. And every time he resumed—stroking her arm, brushing the backs of his fingers down the outside of her thigh—she calmed again.

Like she knew him now.

Like her body had already claimed his presence as comfort.

And gods, that realization did something terrible to him.

Because he hadn’t meant for this to happen.

He wasn’t the guy who did soft sleepovers and early morning cuddles and forehead kisses. He was the guy who ghosted second dates and ignored late-night calls. He didn’t like the idea of being someone’s person. Never had.

It always felt…forced.

Like pretending. Like trying on someone else’s skin.

But this?

This woman—wrapped around him in her rumpled shirt and bare legs, sighing into his chest like he was the only piece of earth that made sense—she hadn’t asked him for anything. She hadn’t demanded affection or attention or validation.

She had just been. Exhausted. Honest. Real.

And somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, she’d made him feel more grounded than anyone ever had.

And now?

Now he was painfully aware of two facts:

The first was that flights were still grounded for another 36 hours.

And the second—worse, heavier—was that this was only their first night together.

Which meant, if the universe had even a shred of humor left in it, he probably only had one more night to feel this.

One more night to hold her.

One more night to learn her sleep sounds, memorize the slope of her neck, commit the weight of her sighs into his muscle memory.

And that felt…cruel.

Because his chest already ached with something heavier than arousal. Something sharper than temporary infatuation. Something he didn’t have a name for yet—but if someone held a blade to his throat and demanded one?

He might’ve said: forever.

Not love. Not yet. Not that word. That word was too flimsy, too early, too big and too small all at once.

But this?

This felt like something that shouldn’t end.

And the idea that it might?

That he’d have to watch her walk out of some gate, still rumpled and soft and sarcastic, and pretend like this didn’t matter?

He wasn’t sure he could do it.

Not without feeling like he was leaving something behind that he might never find again.

So he held her tighter.

Kissed her temple.

Ran his hand down her back one more time and whispered her name like a secret.

And told himself—just for now—that this moment was real. That she was his. That time would stop if he asked it nicely.

Because sometimes?

Sometimes a person felt like home.

And you didn’t realize how cold the world had been—until you crawled into someone’s arms and felt warm for the very first time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve: Pillow Talk and Family Surveillance
Kohaku POV

The first rays of morning had crept through the curtain cracks in slow gold slants, dust floating lazily in the air like time had decided to take the long road. Kagome lay curled in his lap, chest rising steady, lips parted in soft, fluttering breaths. And for a long time, Kohaku had simply watched her. Fingers still threading through her hair. Still touching her. Still anchored to her in a way that made the rest of the world feel a thousand miles away.

But even the softest moments weren’t safe from family.

Because his phone? Was vibrating like it owed the group chat rent.

He’d managed to silence three calls before the messages exploded.

[Sango] Kohaku. Wake. Up.

[Sango] You didn’t sleep and we KNOW IT.

[Miroku] Good morning to everyone, except my brother-in-law who apparently has a woman in his bed and hasn’t said a damn word.

[Mom] Sweetheart, are you alright? Sango says there’s a lady.

[Dad] Are we finally getting grandbabies?

Kohaku groaned under his breath and shifted slightly. Kagome stirred, her lashes fluttering but not fully lifting. She made a soft sound—a sleepy whimper—and instinctively, he ran his palm down her spine. Slow. Reassuring. The kind of touch meant to convince her that the bed was still safe. That he was still safe.

She sighed and melted again, nestling deeper into the crook of his neck like he was some kind of weighted blanket with a heartbeat.

He tilted his head, brushed his mouth against her temple, and muttered, “They’re ridiculous. Ignore them.”

She didn’t answer. Just made a small, pleased noise—something between a purr and a hum—and went boneless again.

Gods.

He loved that sound.

Another buzz.

[Sango] HOW. WHO. WHEN. YOU’RE STRANDED IN KYOTO.

[Sango] Unless she was also in row 17. I need context.

[Miroku] So she is real?

[Sango] Miroku this isn’t time for jokes

[Mom] Is she nice? Is she there by choice? Are you feeding her??

[Dad] Sango says this isn’t a hookup. Which means…intentions, Kohaku.

He sighed through his nose and carefully shifted Kagome off his lap. Moved like a man trained in bomb disposal. Supported her head. Tucked a pillow beneath it. Pulled the blanket back up to her shoulder. Smoothed it once. Just once. Because her brow had furrowed without him, and he needed to fix it.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, like she could hear it beneath sleep. “Still here.”

She relaxed again.

Then, one finger still brushing her hairline, he turned back to the chaos and typed:

[Kohaku] She’s trying to sleep and you all are texting like I adopted a human.

[Sango] SO SHE IS REAL.

[Miroku] I am…cautiously impressed.

[Mom] Is she staying with you the whole time??

[Kohaku] No.

[Sango] Is she coming to the party??

He hesitated.

Looked at Kagome’s face.

Her lashes fluttered again. Like she was still deep under, but not unaware. Her lips parted in a soft breath. One of her fingers curled against the sheet like she was reaching for something.

His hand found hers instantly.

Threaded through.

Held it.

[Kohaku] No.

[Mom] Why not?

[Dad] If she’s in your bed, she can come to the table.

[Sango] Is she shy? I can help. I’m amazing. We’ll do brunch and trauma bonding. Bring her.

[Kohaku] She has a life.

[Sango] SO DO I BUT HERE I AM

[Miroku] Bold of you to assume you have a life, my love.

[Sango] YOU WANT TO SLEEP ON THE COUCH AGAIN?

Kohaku snorted softly and let his phone rest on the nightstand. Kagome stirred faintly, her nose wrinkling like the air had shifted. Her grip on his fingers tightened just slightly.

“You okay?” he murmured, just loud enough to slip into her dreams.

She sighed.

He kissed her forehead.

“Good,” he whispered. “Sleep, beautiful.”

Another message pinged.

He picked the phone back up, thumb scrolling.

[Sango] You always said relationships felt forced. So what changed?

He stared at the screen for a long time.

Then looked down at the woman curled into the sheets beside him, her breath slow, her body soft and trusting in a way that no one had ever given him before without asking for something in return.

And typed.

[Kohaku] This one is different.

[Sango] …oh.

[Miroku] Did Kohaku just confess feelings in the group chat??

[Mom] I KNEW IT.

[Dad] Someone tell me when I can start the grill.

He tossed the phone face-down on the nightstand and laid back down beside Kagome, curling his body around hers as gently as he could without waking her. She made a soft noise—there, that hum again—and scooted instinctively closer.

He buried his face in her hair.

Whispered, “Just one more night, huh?”

And for the first time in years, Kohaku realized he wasn’t scared of wanting more.

He was terrified he’d only get less.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen: Soft Threats and Room Service Ultimatums
Kohaku POV

The first sign she was waking came in the form of a shift—small, unassuming, the barest little roll of her shoulder into his chest like her body was considering awareness and immediately regretting it. Kohaku felt the change in her breathing before she even stirred fully. The deep, even rhythm of sleep softened into something less consistent, less surrendered. Her fingers twitched. Her nose wrinkled against the skin of his collarbone.

Still drowsy, still warm.

But waking.

And his phone? Was still lighting up like the family group chat had developed its own central nervous system.

[Sango] So are you going to tell her you’re in love with her or just cry into her hair when she leaves?

[Mom] Do you think she wants a welcome basket?

[Miroku] Does she have sisters?

[Sango] DO NOT.

[Dad] Does she like barbecue?

He exhaled slowly and thumbed a final reply before tossing the phone face-down beside the nightstand lamp.

[Kohaku]

Turning off notifications before I block my bloodline. Don’t make me do it.

Then he muted them. Mercifully. Entirely. And just in time, because she was definitely awake now.

A soft groan escaped her lips, the kind that sounded like it started in her spine. She shifted again, her thigh sliding against his as she stretched under the covers, arm lifting to rub at her eyes like she hadn’t quite accepted the concept of mornings yet. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and quiet, words half-swallowed by sleep.

“Did you get any sleep?”

Kohaku paused.

He could lie.

She wouldn’t know. He could say “some” or “enough” or “more than I expected.” He could protect her from the truth that he’d spent the entire night awake with her in his arms, listening to the tiny sighs she made when he stroked her hair, memorizing the weight of her body curled up against his chest, and feeling like something inside him had cracked open just from holding her like that.

But instead, he said:

“Some.”

Because she was already embarrassed. Already guarded. She didn’t need the pressure of knowing just how badly she’d undone him.

Kagome nodded once, slowly, then dragged the blanket tighter around herself as she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling like it owed her a refund.

Then—without fanfare—she sat up.

Her oversized shirt slipped down her shoulder, exposing one smooth curve of collarbone. Her legs swung over the edge of the bed, bare from mid-thigh down, long and sun-warm under the morning light. And Kohaku, still propped up on one elbow, stared at her like he was watching a crime in progress.

Because her fingers were already tangled in her hair, yawning as she muttered, “Do you think they still have food downstairs or is it all vending machines and sorrow?”

And he sat up sharply, brow furrowing. “You’re not going downstairs in that.”

She blinked. Looked down at herself. “In what?”

He gestured broadly. “That. The no-pants, no-shame, slept-through-a-heatwave ensemble.”

Kagome rolled her eyes. “I can change.”

“You won’t have to,” he said, already reaching for the hotel phone. “I’m ordering room service.”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Tilted her head. “And when, exactly, did you get permission to be territorial?”

Kohaku didn’t miss a beat. Raised both brows slowly and deadpanned, “Do you really want the answer to that?”

She scoffed. Huffed. Whipped the blanket back over her lap like it had personally offended her.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, turning back to the receiver.

The phone clicked once, rang twice. He ordered two breakfasts—eggs, toast, miso soup, coffee, and something sweet he didn’t quite catch on the menu but knew she’d like. Gave the room number. Said thank you.

All while she sat there, arms crossed, lips pursed.

When he hung up, she looked at him like he was playing a game she didn’t remember agreeing to.

“Seriously,” she muttered. “You’re going to pretend none of last night happened?”

Kohaku shrugged, reaching for the remote. “What do you mean? We got stranded. We slept. You dreamed about throwing Jason out a window. Very normal hotel bonding.”

Her glare was impressively awake for someone still running on fumes.

He flipped to a weather channel. “Food will be here in forty minutes. Get back in bed.”

“I can wait over here—”

“Kagome.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him.

His voice had dropped. His eyes were tired, sure, but they were steady. Intentional. Not teasing. Not pushing.

Just there.

Like he’d decided the easiest way to make her feel safe was to stop making her feel cornered.

He patted the mattress beside him. “Come back. You don’t have to talk. Just be warm and horizontal until caffeine shows up.”

She stared for another second, jaw tense, like she was working through all the emotional layers she didn’t want to peel just yet.

But then she sighed, crawled back in, and let the blanket swallow them both.

And Kohaku didn’t say anything else.

Just leaned his head against the headboard.

And waited.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen: Stupid Brave Things and the Space Between

Kohaku wasn’t sure how long they sat like that—side by side in that hotel bed, the blanket pulled to their waists, the television throwing flickering light over their skin like the room was trying to remember what peace looked like. The volume was low. One of those travel documentaries was playing, the kind that always ended with someone sipping espresso in a cobbled alleyway or standing on a scenic cliff while soft piano music played.

Kagome had the remote.

But she wasn’t really watching.

He could feel it. That subtle shift in atmosphere. Her thoughts were starting to spin again. Not fast, not out of control—just that careful kind of drifting people did when they didn’t want to talk but couldn’t stop thinking either.

She adjusted the pillow behind her back. Chewed the inside of her cheek. Tucked her hair behind her ear. And finally—finally—spoke.

“Do you have family or work in Tokyo?”

Kohaku turned slightly toward her, letting his forearm rest lazily across his thigh. He watched the light shift across her profile, the subtle lines of worry etched near her eyes. He didn’t overthink it.

“Both,” he said simply.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t a big thing—not a grin, not a beam. Just the soft curl of her lips like she’d heard something that made her feel less alone.

“Same,” she said, voice quiet. “Some.”

And gods, he felt it—that little spark of something unfamiliar but steady. Hope.

Maybe this wasn’t doomed. Maybe it wasn’t just twenty-four hours and a hotel bed and a few shared drinks wrapped in airport chaos. Maybe there was space in this strange universe for two people like them—tired, careful, bruised from things they didn’t say aloud—to keep finding each other.

She kept her eyes on the screen. The narrator was talking about Lisbon now. Old streets. Blue tiles. Something poetic.

“Do you have a girlfriend? Or…” she paused, flicked her eyes sideways, “…wife?”

Kohaku huffed. Not mocking—just…amused. Warm.

“If I had a wife or girlfriend,” he said, voice dipping into something firmer, “my family would skin me alive for disrespecting her by sharing a bed with another woman.”

He let the words hang there. Honest. Undeniable.

“So no,” he added, “no one.”

There was a flicker of something across her face—surprise, maybe. Relief? He didn’t chase it.

But he did look at her. Really looked.

And though he didn’t want to ask—though it burned a little in his throat to think he might hear a yes—he forced himself to anyway.

“What about you?”

She was quiet for a second. Shoulders tight.

Then—“No,” she said. “Too clingy to mess around with relationships.”

Her tone was light. Joking. But too soft to be truly detached.

And fuck.

That was it.

That was the moment he fell a little harder. That quiet, vulnerable confession tucked inside a joke she probably thought would bounce right off him.

He turned fully now, propped an elbow against the pillow behind him, and said with a low, thoughtful hum, “Not a bad thing.”

She glanced at him, skeptical.

He met her gaze.

“That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?” he said. “To have your person. To be someone’s.”

Her lips parted. But she didn’t answer.

Just nodded. Slowly. Eyes drifting back to the screen.

They sat like that for another minute. Maybe less. The silence wasn’t heavy. Just suspended. Breathing.

And then Kohaku inhaled slowly—long, deliberate. Searched himself for the line between bold and stupid, found it, and decided to step over it anyway.

“…Is it too early in the day,” he said gently, “to ask you to get back in my arms?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Not harsh. Not sharp.

Just thick with something.

She didn’t turn.

But he saw her body stiffen. Saw the way her fingers clenched lightly against the blanket. The way her jaw tensed like she was trying not to feel something—like she was holding back the urge to protect herself, to run, to pretend none of this was happening.

But she didn’t run.

Didn’t flinch.

Instead—without looking at him—Kagome slowly moved. Shifted across the sheets, knees folding under the blanket as she inched toward him with the hesitant grace of someone doing something incredibly stupid on purpose.

Her shoulder brushed his.

And then her weight eased softly into his side. Arms drawing in. Breathing shallower than before.

She curled toward him. Not fully. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to count.

And he smiled. Slow. Crooked. Like his heart couldn’t quite believe what it had just been given.

“This is so insane,” she whispered, not to him, but to herself.

And still, Kohaku nodded, letting his arm wrap around her waist, pulling her close until her cheek rested just beneath his jaw.

He dipped his head, pressed a kiss to her temple, and murmured into her hair—

“One day at a time, beautiful.”

And she didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t spiral.

She just breathed.

And stayed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen: Quiet Questions and Quieter Hope

Kohaku sat in bed beside her, the hum of the television filling the room like white noise, but neither of them was watching it. The screen flickered with color—travel footage, maybe a documentary, maybe a game show—but the words blurred together, and the room was filled instead with something quieter. Not silence, not awkwardness…but thought. Reflection. The kind of stillness that makes you painfully aware of every inhale, every glance, every inch of space between you.

She was close.

Not curled into him this time—just beside him, her thigh brushing his through the blanket, her shoulder near enough that he could feel the way her breath lifted her ribs. They weren’t speaking. They hadn’t spoken in a few minutes. But it wasn’t cold. Wasn’t tense.

Just cautious.

Like both of them knew that no matter how warm the sheets were, how natural it felt to fall asleep like that, this thing between them was still delicate. Still unnamed. Still utterly, stupidly insane.

And then came the knock.

Room service.

A soft rap against the door followed by a polite, muffled “Delivery,” as if the staff knew not to disturb the fragile thread of intimacy knotted inside this overpriced, liminal hotel room.

Kohaku got up quietly. No dramatic stretch. No lazy comment. Just stood, rolled his neck once, and padded across the carpet to retrieve the tray. He gave a tired thanks, took the food, and closed the door behind him. Not a single word had passed between them since the knock.

He didn’t try to fill the silence.

She wasn’t wrong for being nervous. For wondering. For second-guessing everything that had just happened.

He placed the tray gently on the bed between them, careful to keep it centered. Pastries. Fruit. Eggs. A carafe of coffee that smelled like salvation. Two covered plates, steam already starting to curl out from beneath the lids.

They each reached for something without speaking. She poured the coffee. He grabbed the plates. They moved in tandem like they’d done it before.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was tense.

But the kind of tension that meant something real had happened. Something too good to dismiss and too fragile to assume would survive breakfast.

So he started it. Gave her a safe way in.

“How often do you come to Tokyo?”

Her fingers paused around the mug. She looked at it for a moment before answering, voice quiet. Measured.

“I used to work at the corporate office here,” she said. “Had a little apartment. Roommates. Best friends. It was home.”

There was a pause.

Then, softer—“But…bad relationship made me decide to volunteer for travel duties.”

Kohaku’s grip tightened slightly around his fork. He didn’t say anything. Just watched her take a sip of coffee like it could erase whatever shadow that sentence had dragged out of her.

She continued, shrugging with one shoulder. “Now I’m usually back once a month. Sometimes more. Still have people here. Still feels familiar.”

She paused again. And this time, her voice was almost wistful.

“Maybe I’ll settle down back at the corporate office. Someday.”

And just like that, she offered him a little piece of herself.

Not the whole story. Not the name or the man or the ache that sent her packing. But enough to understand that wherever she had been before… it had hurt. Enough to make her leave everything behind.

He didn’t pry. As much as he wanted to—wanted to know if the bastard was still here, still a ghost in her texts, still something that made her flinch when she thought no one noticed—he didn’t ask. The vagueness was all the answer he needed.

And then, softly, she turned it on him.

“What about you?”

He nodded once, took a sip of water before answering.

“Same,” he said. “Every other month, sometimes more. Depends on the schedule.”

She glanced over. Waiting.

“I usually have to see how things are going,” he added with a small shrug. “But I could delegate if I had to.”

He let that sit between them.

Then, with a crooked smile, he murmured, “There’s just…never been a reason to.”

And the rest hung in the air.

Until now.

Because god, was there potential here. He could feel it every time she leaned toward him. Every time she rolled his name in her sleep like it was something sacred. They could both live here. Both return to something stable. Something permanent. No more flights, no more vouchers, no more falling asleep in transit and waking up confused.

But it would take time.

And time was not on their side. Not yet.

They didn’t say any of that. Didn’t voice the impossible math of what it would take to turn a night of comfort and airport chaos into a life.

They just…ate.

She passed him a croissant.

He cut a slice of orange and placed it on her plate without comment.

Her shoulder bumped his.

And when she leaned back into his side, slow and soft like she was giving herself permission, Kohaku turned his head and kissed her forehead—just once, feather-light—before picking up his fork again and returning to his eggs like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Because even if she didn’t say it, and he didn’t press her, that small gesture—leaning back into him like it was safe again—was everything he needed.

He smiled into his plate.

Could this work?

He didn’t know.

But right now, with her against him, the smell of coffee in the air, and a plate of scrambled eggs going cold between them, it didn’t seem so impossible.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen: Tomorrow, We See

They finished eating in the quiet way people do when their thoughts are louder than their hunger. The tray still sat on the end of the bed—croissant crumbs in the folds of the white cloth napkin, two coffee mugs slowly cooling beside one another like the day itself was winding down despite it still being morning. Kagome had eaten enough to satisfy the shape of an appetite, but not the soul of one. Kohaku noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything now.

She leaned back against the headboard, legs curled to the side, fingers gently twisting the edge of the blanket. She didn’t fidget, not really. But her hands betrayed her. Her eyes flicked from the window to the TV and then back again. The tension was no longer between them—it was inside her. Settled in the hollow beneath her ribs. That gnawing little what if that kept dragging its nails down her chest from the inside out.

She looked at him once—just once—and asked softly, “Do you…wanna do anything?”

He turned his head, met her gaze, and answered with absolute certainty. “No.”

Her brows lifted a little.

“I’m happy right here,” he said simply.

And something about that undid her a little more than he expected.

Her lips curved. Just a breath of a smile. “Me too.”

But the tension stayed. It didn’t evaporate. It didn’t shatter or resolve just because they said the right words. Because the problem wasn’t where they were or what they were doing—it was the unbearable weight of possibility. Of impermanence. The looming shape of tomorrow pressing itself into the corners of today.

Kagome curled up against him then—soft, warm, quiet—tucking herself back into his side like her body remembered where to go even if her mind hadn’t caught up. Her cheek pressed near his collarbone. One arm slung gently across his chest. And for a while, they just sat like that. Not speaking. Not moving. Just being.

She didn’t ask him the question lingering between her teeth.

And he didn’t offer her an answer she wasn’t ready to hear.

Instead, he shifted. Carefully. He reached to the tray, moved it to the desk, and then laid back against the pillows, bringing her with him. His arm wrapped low around her hips. Protective. Steady. The kind of hold that didn’t ask anything of her. Just offered presence.

She sighed.

The kind that let him know—she wanted to believe this. She just didn’t know how.

And gods, he understood that.

Because this wasn’t some summer fling. It didn’t feel like convenience or lust or boredom. It felt like waking up and realizing this—this moment, this woman—might be the first real thing to ever pull at the deepest part of him. The part that never trusted easily. That never wanted to.

But he also knew this wasn’t something words could fix.

He couldn’t tell her everything would be okay. That this made sense. That they could make it work.

Because maybe they could.

Or maybe they’d say goodbye in thirty hours and only ever wonder what might have been.

So he said the only thing he could.

“We can stay here tonight,” he murmured, thumb brushing softly over her hip. “Get another day of rest.”

She shifted slightly. Just enough for her eyes to glance up at him.

“Tomorrow,” he continued, “we can figure it out.”

She didn’t say anything. Not yet.

“Today,” he said, “we relax. In bed. Watch TV. Eat food. Recover. And tonight…” His hand slid up her spine in a soft, rhythmic motion. “We sleep.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head.

“And tomorrow,” he whispered, “we see where we stand.”

There was a long silence. But then—so quiet he might have missed it if she hadn’t been pressed against his chest—she nodded.

And that was enough.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Kagome eventually fell asleep again, her body heavy with exhaustion, her hand still clutching his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. She mumbled something once. His name. Maybe a breath of a thought. Maybe a tether.

He didn’t move. He just held her.

And gods, if he didn’t want to say it—say all of it. That she could stay. That they could build something. That he would clear every flight, cancel every meeting, reroute every piece of his life to Tokyo if it meant she’d look at him like this a year from now.

But he didn’t. Because she wasn’t ready to hear it.

And because he knew—really knew—that what she needed most right now wasn’t a promise. Wasn’t a plan. Wasn’t pressure.

She needed a place to breathe.

So he gave her that. Let her rest. Let her exist.

And beneath the weight of her soft breathing, the warmth of her against his chest, Kohaku stared up at the ceiling and thought—maybe—if they both got brave at the same time tomorrow…this could be everything.

She was out cold.

Breathing deep and even, one hand still caught in the fabric of his shirt like her body hadn’t quite realized he wasn’t a pillow. Or maybe it had. Maybe it just didn’t care. Maybe it had already made the decision her heart hadn’t caught up to yet.

Kohaku shifted slowly, carefully easing her down into the center of the bed. She went willingly, head rolling onto the pillow, lashes soft against flushed cheeks. One small sigh escaped her lips, her brow briefly furrowing before smoothing again the moment his hand brushed down her side.

He stood over the bed for a long second. Just… watching her. That open vulnerability she wore in sleep undid something in him every damn time. No shields. No biting sarcasm. No nerves buzzing beneath the surface. Just Kagome. Quiet. Honest. Beautiful in a way that knocked the breath out of him.

He turned toward the window next, tugged the blackout curtains closed until the mid-morning light was reduced to soft gray. It made the room feel smaller somehow. Safer. More intimate. Like time had slowed to let them catch their breath. Like the world had been shoved outside the walls of this hotel room and only the two of them remained.

The TV went off next—one quiet click, and the mindless stream of sitcom reruns cut to silence. He turned off the lamps too, letting darkness cradle the room with the hush of unspoken things. And then he stripped off his shirt—not out of seduction, not to make a point. Just heat. Simplicity. Comfort. He hadn’t slept all night, and the weight of it was starting to hum in his bones.

He crawled back into bed with her—slow, careful, cautious not to wake her. Not yet.

His arm found her waist automatically. His body curved behind hers instinctively. He tucked her in against his chest like something precious he hadn’t even realized he’d been searching for until now.

And then he just…stroked her hair. Over and over. Gentle, absentminded passes through the silk-dark strands. His fingers followed the line from scalp to nape, then back again, tracing her temple, brushing the shell of her ear, letting his hand fall to her waist and then rise again. A rhythm. A tether.

And gods, what the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Because this—this ridiculous, beautiful, impossible connection they’d stumbled into—wasn’t just some fluke. It wasn’t just lust or exhaustion or circumstance. It was real.

It felt real. And that terrified him.

He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t prepared. He hadn’t spent years dodging relationship drama and emotional landmines just to get brought to his knees by a woman who fell asleep on his shoulder like it was nothing.

But that was the problem. It wasn’t nothing.

And now she was in his bed, curled into his chest, breathing soft and warm like she’d done this a hundred times before, and he had no fucking clue what came next.

What should he do? Push her away before it got worse?

Pretend it didn’t matter when the flight took off in two days and they both went back to their respective cities, schedules, and guarded hearts?

Or say it—actually say it—that he didn’t want this to end?

That she made him feel settled in a way no routine ever had? That the thought of her in his life for more than just these stolen hours didn’t scare him—it relieved him?

He closed his eyes, forehead lightly resting against the back of her head, and sighed.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, burrowing back into him without a sound, her thigh brushing his.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the moment settle around him like ash.

And in the dark, with the weight of her pressed against his chest and the silence holding the room like a secret, he realized something dangerous:

He wasn’t falling for her.

He already had.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen: A Few Weeks in Tokyo
Kohaku’s POV

He woke up to whispering.

The kind that wasn’t meant to be heard. Soft. Measured. Full of careful words and breath held between syllables. It didn’t match the hum of the AC unit or the occasional creak of the old hotel mattress. This was human. Intentional. Secretive.

Kohaku didn’t move at first—his body still tangled in blankets, one arm outstretched toward empty sheets. But he knew immediately something was different. His hand brushed the mattress instinctively.

She wasn’t there.

Still, he didn’t open his eyes. Just adjusted, slightly. Shifted one leg. Let his head tilt. And listened.

“…I’m fine,” her voice murmured. “Yeah. I swear. I slept, I promise. I’ve just been… delayed.”

Speakerphone. Low volume. Controlled.

The haze of sleep burned off fast. He turned his head on the pillow, slowly, without drawing attention to himself. His lids stayed heavy, mostly closed, but now he could make out the faint silhouette of her—sitting near the window, knees tucked under her, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her phone glowed in her hands. Her voice was soft but sure. Familiar.

And then the man’s voice answered.

“Just making sure. You haven’t texted in two days, Kagome.”

Masculine. Young. Lightly teasing, but concerned. Protective.

Kohaku’s heart didn’t spike. Not jealousy. Just alertness. Caution. His mind calculated in seconds: 2PM from the hotel clock. He’d been asleep six hours.

“I know, I know,” she whispered. “I meant to. But everything got chaotic, and I— I needed a minute. It’s all good now. Really.”

“Okay,” the man—boy, now that Kohaku focused—sighed. “And you’re still coming back tomorrow?”

She hesitated. Only a beat. But it was there.

“…I’m staying in Tokyo a few more weeks.”

That pause—so short, so delicate—hit Kohaku like a soft blow to the ribs. He didn’t even know why. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t said it aloud to him yet. That he hadn’t known she’d decided. That she was making a choice—right now—and he wasn’t the one hearing it first.

“…Yeah?” the guy’s voice rose, curious. “You miss home that bad?”

Another pause. Then a breath.

“…Yeah.”

Gods. She was lying. But not cruelly. Not maliciously. It was a gentle lie. A deflection. A safety net. He could hear it in her tone. Could practically feel the weight of it in the air.

“Hm,” the guy said. “Then explain the whispering.”

“I’m not whispering,” she deflected.

“Kagome,” he said, long-suffering. “You’re never this quiet. I’ve heard you yell at people in five countries. Who are you trying not to wake up?”

She didn’t answer.

Kohaku’s mouth twitched.

“…Kagome,” the guy repeated, his tone slipping into teasing menace. “You’re not one to share spaces. Or beds. Is there something I need to know?”

She exhaled—too slow. Too guilty.

“No.”

He grinned into the pillow.

“You’re lying,” her brother said immediately.

Kagome laughed under her breath.

Then—louder—“Souta, don’t.”

Souta. That explained everything.

“Not coming back pregnant, are you?”

“Souta!”

“Just checking! You are my only sister, I have a right to know if I’m about to become an uncle.”

She snorted softly, pulling the blanket tighter.

“I’m not bringing anyone home,” she muttered.

“You didn’t answer the question, technically,” Souta teased. “Which means I can now safely assume someone’s in the room with you and definitely in your bed.”

Kohaku could hear the grin in his voice. The sheer joy of sibling chaos.

He had a sister. He got it.

“I’m hanging up now,” she warned.

“Oh, come on. Just tell me if you like him.”

Another pause. Too long. Then—

“I’m still figuring that out.”

Gods. Kohaku’s chest ached. Because she didn’t say no. She didn’t shut it down. She didn’t deny him. She didn’t even downplay what they’d shared.

She was trying. Trying to be careful. Trying to protect something fragile and still forming. But she was choosing it. Choosing him. Choosing to stay longer. Choosing not to run.

That did something devastating to him.

Souta, not missing a beat, sighed dramatically. “Kagome. You’re allergic to sleepovers and pillow-sharing. This poor bastard better be incredible.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m just saying. It took you four years to let your ex use your bath towels. And now you’re whispering and hiding in a hotel room? This sounds serious.”

She didn’t answer.

But Kohaku could see her silhouette—her head bowed, her arms wrapped tighter around the blanket, her legs curling under her. She was nervous. Still spiraling. Still afraid to speak this thing out loud.

And gods, he understood. He did.

Because it was fast. Because it was crazy. Because everything about them defied the logic that kept people safe.

But hearing her confess—just barely—that she didn’t want to go back yet? That she wanted a few more weeks in Tokyo?

That she was willing to risk this?

It made the decision for him.

Tomorrow, when she woke up—hell, maybe even tonight—he’d make the calls. Email his assistants. Let them know he’d be working remote. That both companies could function without him for a few weeks. That he was staying. Here. With her.

Because she was choosing this. And he would meet her there. Even if they were still figuring out what this was.

“…Hey,” Souta said, breaking the quiet. “For real. You okay?”

There it was. The shift. The deeper concern. And Kagome answered, soft and sure:

“I think I’m okay.”

And for the first time since waking up, Kohaku opened his eyes. Not all the way. But enough. Just to watch her.

The girl who had fallen asleep in his arms like she’d done it a thousand times. The woman who had whispered apologies into his chest even when she thought he couldn’t hear them. The woman who was now curled in a hotel window seat, phone in hand, heart on her sleeve, making the scariest decision in the world:

To stay.

She didn’t know he was listening. But he would remember this moment forever.

And when she turned off the call, set her phone down, and tiptoed back toward the bed, still wrapped in that oversized blanket, still scared?

He would be waiting.

Ready.

Because gods help him, he wasn’t letting her do this alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen: Violation Rights and Other First Date Questions
Kohaku’s POV

She had crawled back into bed with the grace of someone trying not to disturb anything—the sheets, the air, the moment. But she couldn’t fall asleep. Kohaku knew that within seconds. Her body, so soft and pliant the night before, was now restless. Squirmy. She shifted her leg, then her arm, then adjusted her pillow like it was to blame for her sleeplessness. She made soft little sighs like she was trying to exhale her anxiety. And then she stilled. Only for a breath. Then another shift.

Kohaku let it go on for a few more seconds, just long enough to sell the illusion. Then he stretched, yawned theatrically, and turned to her with a groggy mumble. “Mmh…you okay? Can’t sleep?”

She froze. Then, after a beat: “I was asleep. I just…woke up. Can’t fall back asleep.”

Liar. Cute one, though.

He hummed low in his throat, dragging one hand up to brush sleep from his face as he peeked at her through half-lidded eyes. She looked like a child caught sneaking cookies past bedtime. Nervous. Pink-cheeked. Still tucked up against her side of the bed like she was unsure she had permission to exist there.

“What can I do?” he asked softly, voice still thick with pretend sleep.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Everything’s fine.”

He held back a sigh. Instead, he shifted slightly and opened one arm. “Come here.”

She blinked at him. “I’m right here.”

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Then raised one brow. She narrowed her eyes at the gesture. “How close do you want me?”

He smiled. “How close can you get?”

She blushed. It was gorgeous. A slow bloom of color across her cheeks that made him want to press his mouth to them and suck the heat straight from her skin. But she tried to brush it off with a dry little huff.

“You’re topless,” she muttered, “I didn’t want to violate you.”

He laughed, full and low. “Violate away. I’m your unofficial husband, remember?” He leaned in, grinning. “My body is yours to do whatever you want.”

He didn’t mention how badly he wanted her to take him up on that. Didn’t mention the things she’d already done to him in her sleep. Didn’t mention the memory of her hips grinding slow, her breath hot against his throat, her hand pressed right against the aching throb of him while she dreamed.

Nope. None of that. Just smiled. Just teased. Just invited.

She made a face at him—half scandalized, half amused—and scooted closer. And he, bastard that he was, wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her fully in. Let their legs tangle again. Let his fingers trace gentle patterns on her spine like they’d done it a thousand times before.

She was quiet for a moment. Restless.

Then:

“What do you do?”

He almost laughed. It wasn’t the question—it was the timing of it. Here she was, pressed against his bare chest like a woman who already had claim to the best parts of him, and only now was she asking the basics.

She violated first, snuggled second, then ran her background check.

God, he loved her style.

“A little bit of everything,” he said vaguely. Because it was true. And because part of him knew exactly what the full truth might do to her anxiety.

But she huffed against him, curling her fingers into his shirtless side. “Professions, Kohaku.”

His name. In a whisper. Soft. Teasing.

He sighed. “I run two companies.”

He felt her head lift. Just a little. Then the wide eyes. The inhale. And the tell-tale silence of someone doing mental math with emotional consequences.

There it was. That realization. The quiet panic.

Someone that busy couldn’t possibly have time. Not for long-distance. Not for figuring-it-out. Not for her.

But he was ready for it.

“Like I said before,” he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “I hardly ever delegate. But I should. My sister said she wanted me home longer this stay.” A small lie. But a useful one.

Her gaze flicked to his.

And gods, she was trying so hard not to look hopeful. Like hope itself would betray her.

“Yeah,” he added casually, “probably be home at least a few weeks. You know how family is.”

He saw it. The flicker. That tiny, shy relief. As if some internal compass had just reoriented. As if stars were actually aligning.

She looked away fast. Back at the blanket. At the wall. At the window.

Anything but him.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

She nodded. Then sighed.

But she didn’t admit the phone call. Didn’t say a word about the decision she’d already made. Didn’t tell him that she was staying longer, too.

Instead, she asked, “What’s your sister like?”

He smiled at the shift. At the dodge. “Chaotic. Brilliant. Mostly angry at me for never staying long enough to see her husband’s bad piano recitals.”

She laughed. “Sounds like a good sister.”

“She’s terrifying,” he admitted. “In the best way.”

A beat passed. Then she asked, “What’s your favorite meal?”

“Easy. My mom’s curry. Like, top-tier. Peak human achievement.”

More silence.

She fiddled with the hem of the blanket. Then: “Ever broken a bone?”

He chuckled. “Couple fingers. One rib. Teenage stupidity. You?”

“No,” she whispered. “I’ve never broken anything.”

“Not even a heart?” he teased.

She froze. Then slowly lifted her eyes to glare at him.

He grinned. Shameless. “Too much?”

“Shut up,” she muttered.

He raised a brow. “Is this a dating interview? Are you gonna ask my blood type next?”

She glared harder. But the blush betrayed her.

She said nothing.

And he leaned in, kissed the top of her head, and whispered against her hair:

“One day at a time, beautiful.”

She buried her face in his chest, silent.

But her hand found his. And didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen: Naps, Head Rubs, and One More Month
Kohaku’s POV

She fell asleep again.

Curled into his chest, arm wrapped under his, face tucked into the hollow between his shoulder and jaw like she was trying to fuse their bodies at the point of warmth. Kohaku didn’t notice it at first. One second she was asking him about broken bones, snarking about blood types and deflecting with every fiber of her sleep-deprived soul—and the next?

Soft breathing. Heavy stillness.

Gone.

He chuckled quietly to himself. Because gods, she napped like a cat.

Not a person. A feline. The moment you scratched just the right part of her scalp, right at the crown where her hair parted, she’d go boneless. The sigh would come first, then the twitch of her fingers gripping whatever fabric or skin was closest, then the slow drift. She wouldn’t admit it. Probably didn’t even realize she did it. But it was the third time now—and each time, it had taken less than five minutes of stroking her hair for her to knock out like a light.

Kohaku dragged his fingers gently through her scalp again, just to test it. Sure enough, she let out a little breathy sound—almost a purr—and curled tighter into his side like she was tucking herself in with his heartbeat.

Ridiculous.

Adorable.

His.

Maybe not officially. Maybe not yet. But the part of him that had been untouched for so long—dormant, locked behind work and logic and relentless solitude—had already made a decision.

He wasn’t letting this go.

He glanced down at her again. Noticed the faint shadows under her eyes. The tension still lingering in her jaw even in sleep. She looked peaceful, yes—but beneath it was something else. Fatigue. That kind of tired that didn’t come from a bad night, but from months of running on fumes. Of performing. Of being the reliable one, the smart one, the one who fixed everything with zero margin for personal failure.

Maybe that’s why she napped so easily with him.

Maybe this was the first time she didn’t have to keep herself braced.

He let his palm slide down her spine once, slow and steady.

She didn’t stir.

And while she rested, while her breathing deepened and her body molded into his like it had been shaped for it, Kohaku reached for his phone.

Time to make it real.

First, the calendar. He blocked the next thirty days. Marked them “Remote—Tokyo.” Then he sent a message to both of his executive assistants.

To: Aiko / Jin
I’ll be remote for the next four weeks. Handle what you can. Delegate what you can’t. I’ll step in only if you need me or someone’s bleeding out on a spreadsheet.

From Aiko:
You hate being remote.

From Jin:
Did you fall in love or fall into a coma?

From Kohaku:
Just needed a break.

From Jin:
You don’t take breaks.

From Aiko:
…oh my god.

He rolled his eyes and locked the screen. They could speculate all they wanted. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he could explain it himself. It wasn’t logical. Wasn’t structured. They didn’t even have a plan. But they had this.

And this? Was more than he’d had in years.

He shifted down into the bed more fully, one arm under her head, the other curled around her waist. Her body was warm against him. Familiar. Like it had always belonged here. Her breath ghosted across his collarbone in slow, even pulses.

A month. One whole month. It wasn’t forever. But it was something. Enough time to see what this was. Enough time to decide if they were both brave enough to call it real.

And right now?

That was all he wanted. One month of naps. Of coffee and morning silence. Of brushing her hair off her face and feeling her melt beneath his hands. Of teasing her about blood types and kissing her forehead every time she called him annoying.

He looked down at her, and just barely—so soft it felt like a secret—he whispered:

“One day at a time, beautiful.”

He whispered it into her hair like a prayer he didn’t want anyone—not even himself—to hear too clearly. Like saying it too loud would shatter the fragile, perfect thing curled up against his chest. Kagome didn’t stir. Didn’t even twitch. She just burrowed closer, sighing softly in her sleep, her fingers curled against the hem of his sweatpants like she’d found something warm in the dark and refused to let it go.

Kohaku closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of her shampoo—lavender and citrus and maybe whatever softening spell the gods used to unmake men—and let the thought settle fully in his chest.

He was staying.

One month. No travel. No client visits. No late-night flights. Just Tokyo. Just her.

And he didn’t want to hide it, but…he also wasn’t about to gift his entire chaotic bloodline the full story on a silver platter. So he reached for his phone again, thumb hovering over the group chat labeled: Taijiya Hell Pit.

[Kohaku]:
Hey. Staying in Tokyo for a bit.

[Sango]:
Define “a bit.”

[Mom]:
Two days? A week? Should I cancel Sunday dinner?

[Dad]:
Is this about the woman?

[Miroku]:
If this is not about the woman, I will eat one of my houseplants in shame.

Kohaku sighed and stared at the blinking cursor for a second.

Then typed:

[Kohaku]:
A month. Maybe more.

The ellipses from all of them popped up at once. Like synchronized chaos. He added, before the madness could begin:

[Kohaku]:
If anyone asks, it’s because Sango begged me to spend more time with the family. You’re welcome.

[Sango]:
DAMN. She’s that good?

Kohaku didn’t even blink before replying.

[Kohaku]:
Unreal.

[Miroku]:
I’m suddenly rethinking everything I know about airport delays.

[Mom]:
Do we get to meet her?

[Sango]:
Back off, he’s finally vulnerable. Let the love story breathe, Mother.

[Dad]:
Tell her I’ll save a seat at the grill.

[Mom]:
Don’t scare her off, dear.

Kohaku turned off the screen before more of their meddling poured in. The last thing he needed was them deciding to host a family reunion in Tokyo disguised as “a casual dinner.”

He placed the phone quietly back on the nightstand and looked down at Kagome again. She’d shifted slightly, nose pressed to his chest now, legs tangled with his. She was wrapped around him like some reckless, affectionate octopus who hadn’t gotten the memo that he was already hers.

Gods, he didn’t even care if they all showed up. He didn’t care what questions came later. What this looked like to anyone else.

Because her staying?

It was enough.

And if he had to use his sister’s name as cover fire to give them a month of space?

So be it.

He smiled to himself, pulled her in tighter, and let the warmth of her breath lull him deeper into the quiet.

Sango had no idea how right she was.

She really was that good.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty: Terms and Conditions (Unofficially Official)
Kohaku’s POV

She stirred like someone trying not to wake up. That hazy, half-conscious shuffle of limbs where the body wants to keep sleeping, but the world won’t stop nudging. Kagome groaned into his chest—soft, muffled, the kind of sound that made him feel like he’d been allowed to keep something sacred. She blinked up at him, lashes slow to lift, her fingers still tangled loosely in the hem of his sweatpants like some feral gremlin afraid of being unclaimed.

Gods, she was a menace. A gorgeous one.

Her eyes finally focused on him, and she mumbled, “What time is it?”

He glanced over her shoulder at the dim hotel clock. “Almost five.”

She winced. “That late?”

He nodded. “You were out. Hard. Like a kitten in a sunbeam.”

“Don’t call me a kitten.”

“You nap like one.”

She pulled the blanket over her face with a groan, then peeked out. “What do you want to do? Since it’s already almost evening?”

Kohaku smiled lazily. “Well…” He stretched beneath her, tilting his head just enough to meet her eyes. “Pack. And make sure we’re on the same flight back.”

Her expression didn’t fall, not exactly. It was more like it…softened. Folded inward. Like something she’d been holding together with invisible thread just frayed a little at the edges.

“Oh,” she said. Small. Flat.

She didn’t say anything else.

And that? That hurt.

Because she was clearly preparing herself for goodbye. Already pulling back. Already slipping into that part of her brain that expected things to end. And he wasn’t letting her spiral in silence.

So he exhaled, long and steady, and broke the damn ice.

“Here’s the game plan,” he said, sitting up with her still mostly in his lap. “We exchange numbers. We stay in contact. We see where this goes in the next few weeks. Then we figure it out.”

Her eyes flicked to him. Wide. Careful. And gods, he could see it.

That look. The one that said she’d heard promises before. That people had said exactly those things to her, maybe in different words, but always with the same end: hope dangling from a thread that snapped too soon.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t fight it. Just gave him a look that was half-sad, half-waiting-to-be-proved-wrong.

Then, without a word, she grabbed her phone, tapped the screen, and flipped it toward him. A blank contact card. Waiting for a number. He read it off his own phone and entered it in for her. Watched her save it.

“Contact name?” she asked, typing.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Unofficial husband.”

She froze. Eyed him.

He smiled.

She rolled her eyes and huffed. “You’re impossible.”

“And married,” he teased, holding out his hand for her phone. “Give me yours.”

She sighed dramatically, but rattled  it off.

He entered the number and titled it Unofficial Wife. Hit save. Then locked the screen and dropped the phone gently on the bed between them like it was a signed contract.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice lower now. Calmer. “I expect to see you. Not just calls. Not just texts. We’re in the same city. No excuse. We’ll do dinners. Lunches. Real dates.”

Her breath caught. Just slightly.

Kohaku reached up and brushed her hair behind her ear. “You’re not a layover, Kagome.”

And gods, the way her shoulders dropped at that? Like someone had just set down a thousand pounds of doubt from her spine. She looked away. Then back.

“…Okay.”

He grinned. “Okay?”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, unofficial husband.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead gently to hers, and whispered, “You’re stuck with me for at least a month.”

She didn’t pull away. And for the first time that day, she smiled without any sadness hiding behind it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One: Morning Flights and Matching Seats
Kohaku’s POV

The walk through the terminal was quieter than expected.

Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet in the way people are when they’ve already said everything that matters, and now they’re living in the soft stretch of what comes next.

They had packed together—sort of. Kagome folded her things methodically, like someone who’d lived out of a suitcase too long to bother pretending it wasn’t a form of survival. Kohaku, meanwhile, just shoved his clothes into his duffel like a man unbothered by wrinkles and fully focused on her leaning over the dresser in nothing but leggings and one of his T-shirts.

He hadn’t said anything about her wearing his shirt again. But gods, did he notice.

Every time it slid off one shoulder, every time she absently tugged the hem down while she leaned, every time she stretched and the fabric lifted to reveal bare skin—

He noticed.

And said nothing.

Because he was trying to be decent. Trying to honor the softness of this strange little bubble they’d built—delayed flights, stolen beds, whispered midnight confessions and barely restrained touches. He didn’t want to ruin it by pressing too hard too soon.

So instead, they packed. In silence. With tension that wasn’t quite sexual but definitely wasn’t platonic. Like an electrical current stretched between them with no exposed wires—just warmth. Familiarity. Possibility.

When they made it to the airline desk, Kagome was the first to speak.

“Hi,” she said, polite but tired. “We were on that delayed Narita flight? From last night?”

The attendant nodded sympathetically. “We’ve got several of those rescheduled for tomorrow morning. May I have your names?”

“Kagome Higurashi,” she said softly.

“Kohaku Taijiya,” he added, sliding his ID over.

The attendant tapped away, and after a moment, gave them a tight smile. “Good news. There are still seats left on the same morning flight out tomorrow—7:45 a.m. Would you like to be on it?”

“Yes, please,” Kagome said.

“And if possible,” Kohaku added casually, “can we be seated next to each other?”

The woman at the desk raised an eyebrow, glanced between them, then smiled like she knew exactly what kind of chaos had happened over the last 24 hours. “We can arrange that. You two are lucky—only a few blocks of seats left.”

Lucky.

Kohaku held back a grin.

Yeah. That word worked.

She handed over the boarding passes. “You’re confirmed for tomorrow. Boarding at 7:00 a.m., gate 12. Window and aisle, together.”

“Perfect,” he said.

Kagome took hers with a quiet, unreadable expression. Not sad. Not upset. But distant for a second, like the weight of the real world was catching up again. Like she was counting the hours already. And maybe she was.

When they walked away, neither of them said anything immediately.

Until Kohaku bumped her shoulder with his.

“Window or aisle?”

She blinked at him.

“You get first pick,” he said.

“…Window.”

“Perfect. I’ll fight off the beverage cart demons for you.”

She cracked a smile. Small, but real. And he wanted to kiss it. Just lean in and brush his mouth over hers and tell her that everything from here forward was going to be okay.

But instead?

He walked beside her. Two matching boarding passes. One more night together.

The hotel room door clicked shut behind them with the soft finality of something winding down. Kagome dropped her small suitcase near the wall with a breath so deep, it didn’t sound like relief—it sounded like retreat.

He watched her walk slowly across the room, her shoulders a little slumped, her gaze turned inward. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t speaking. She was just quiet in that way people get when they’re in their own heads, running simulations of every possible outcome before they ever make a move.

He knew that look. Knew what it meant to already miss something that hadn’t even ended yet.

Kohaku toed off his shoes, tossed his jacket on the chair, and climbed onto the bed. No hesitation, no preamble. Just dropped back on the pillows and let his head fall to the side as he looked at her, really looked at her—standing there like a woman already packing up her emotions just in case this wasn’t going to last.

Not on his watch.

So he cleared his throat, not loud, but just enough for her to glance over.

“Alright,” he said, folding his arms behind his head. “Let’s go over the plan again.”

Her brow furrowed. “What plan?”

He shifted slightly, made himself comfortable, as if this was just another business meeting he had every intention of seeing through. “We text. We make plans. We see where this goes.”

She blinked.

“And how about this,” he added, voice gentle but solid, the kind of voice that wasn’t asking for permission so much as offering an anchor. “We land tomorrow. But the day after? Let’s meet for dinner.”

Her breath hitched.

He saw it. Felt it.

Because for someone like Kagome—someone used to travel, distance, unpredictability—concreteness was a love language. And a dinner date wasn’t just a meal. It was a commitment. A placeholder. A bridge between limbo and whatever came next.

“Dinner?” she echoed, almost disbelieving.

He smiled. “Yeah. You and me. No airports. No hotel chaos. Just a proper dinner in Tokyo. Let’s pick a place that works for us.”

She stared at him for a long second, and he could see it—that flicker of cautious hope catching light behind her eyes. That disbelief that something good could be that simple.

“What kind of food do you like?” he asked, sitting up just slightly, leaning forward to study her like she was the only question on the test worth answering.

She chewed her lip. “Are you really asking, or is this one of those ‘I’ll eat whatever you pick’ situations?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “I’m not going to pick some overpriced place with a ten-page wine list and a menu in Latin if you’d rather have curry and beer in a booth somewhere.”

Her lips twitched. “Curry and beer doesn’t sound terrible.”

He nodded. “Good. Add it to the list of possibilities. But I’m vetoing any place with plastic chairs.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a grown-ass man, and I want back support while I admire you over dessert.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now, arms crossed over her chest, still standing, still on that line between cautious and convinced.

“You really want to do dinner,” she said softly.

“I want to do a lot of things,” he replied, voice low, honest. “But dinner’s the next step.”

Her gaze dropped, almost shy. And then she nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And just like that? It wasn’t goodbye. It wasn’t maybe. It was okay. A plan. A place to land. A reason to stay soft instead of shutting down.

And that one little word? From her lips? Sounded like a door opening.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two: Borrowed Threads and Last Nights
Kohaku’s POV

It was real now. Not some half-assed maybe, not a tentative “we’ll see” thrown into the dark like a safety net made of vapor. It was in both of their phones—calendar entries, notifications on, complete with location, time, and a little ‘🍛’ emoji she’d insisted on adding.
Dinner. Tokyo. Day after tomorrow.
A date. A real one.

Kohaku had even triple-checked his own schedule, cleared a space, delegated responsibilities with a precision that would’ve made Sango weep with relief. The meeting he’d been avoiding? Postponed. The client check-in? Punted to someone who owed him a favor. For once, he wasn’t making room for business.

He was making room for her.

Their packed suitcases sat against the wall now, zipped and ready. Tickets confirmed. Seats side-by-side. The next step was painfully real—tomorrow morning, they’d board the flight back to Tokyo. Back to real life. And whatever this thing between them was?

It’d have to figure out how to survive in daylight.

Kagome stood near the closet, holding her travel bag with one hand, reaching for her pajamas with the other, the late-evening light casting her in gold. She looked soft around the edges, but tired in the way he’d come to recognize—a woman who didn’t know how to rest until someone made her. And tonight? He would make her.

“Bathroom?” she asked, holding up her clothes.

He leaned back on the bed, bare feet propped up, eyes tracing her without shame. “Mhm,” he hummed. “Go ahead.”

She turned to head in that direction, but before she made it halfway, he sat up, peeled off the soft, barely-worn black T-shirt he’d been wearing all day, and tossed it at her.

She caught it mid-step with a confused blink. “What’s this?”

He gave a casual shrug, laying back again. “It’ll cover more than whatever shirt you were about to put on.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Judging my pajamas now?”

“I’m just saying,” he smirked, “that little cropped thing you wore last time barely passed the censorship rating. Might as well upgrade.”

She held it up, inspecting the size. “This is huge.”

“Exactly,” he said, eyes closed, hands behind his head. “It’ll reach your thighs. Maybe your knees, if you tuck. Oversized comfort, built-in Kohaku scent, emotional support cotton—hell of a deal.”

She laughed softly, and it was the kind of laugh he wanted to record and loop on his worst days.

“I can give it back tomorrow,” she offered.

“Keep it,” he said, without opening his eyes. “It’s yours now. Souvenir of your accidental honeymoon.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, dragging the shirt with her as she padded into the bathroom, “you’re never letting that go.”

“Never,” he agreed proudly. “Unofficial wife perks.”

The door clicked shut behind her, but he could still hear her muffled laughter through the wall.

Kohaku stared at the ceiling, one arm flung across his ribs.

This was their last night here. The last night in the warm, too-small hotel room that had somehow become a liminal space between strangers and something more. The last night where excuses and travel vouchers and missed flights still made this whole thing feel like a suspended reality. Tomorrow, they’d be in Tokyo. In their own apartments. In their own routines.

But tonight?

Tonight, she’d fall asleep beside him again. Maybe tangled up in his arms. Maybe curled around the shirt he just gave her. Maybe both. And that was enough—for now.

He could be patient. He could wait. Because it was official now. Dinner was in the calendar. And her contact in his phone? Still saved as Unofficial Wife.

God help him, he didn’t want that title to stay unofficial for long.

He heard the bathroom door click open first. The soft sweep of steam spilling out second. But it was the silence that followed—the kind of breath-held quiet that filled a room with more weight than sound—that made him finally tilt his head and look.

And gods.

She stood in the doorway, his black T-shirt hanging off her like it was made for this exact moment. Too big in all the right ways—swallowing her shoulders, clinging a little too tight around her hips, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs in a way that made his mouth go dry.

Her hair was slightly damp, messy from towel drying. Her legs were bare, skin smooth and glowing beneath the low hotel lights. And despite the little huff she gave as she padded toward the bed, her eyes flicked toward him—just once—with that same nervous, quiet softness she always tried to cover with sarcasm.

He was still shirtless. Still laying there in the exact same spot, arms behind his head like some self-satisfied bastard waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

“You’re staring,” she muttered, voice dry.

“You’re in my shirt,” he countered, with a smile sharp enough to cut and soft enough to soothe. “What did you expect? Modesty?”

She didn’t answer that. Just lifted the corner of the hem and glanced down. “It really does reach my thighs.”

“I did say emotional support cotton,” he replied, shifting slightly to make room as she approached. “Built-in Kohaku cuddle setting comes standard.”

She rolled her eyes—but climbed into bed without hesitation.

No protests. No awkward fumbling. No nervous laugh.

She just slid under the covers like it was routine. Like it was hers. Like coming back to him was a natural conclusion to her day.

And when he lifted his arm—offering her a space that didn’t need words to define it—she curled right into his side.

Chest to ribs. Hip to thigh. Her head tucked against his shoulder like it had always belonged there.

And he felt it. In the bones. In the heart.

Something about the way she melted into him wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t a play. It wasn’t some continuation of the heated chaos they’d survived the night before. It was simpler. Deeper.

Like she wanted this.
Wanted him.
And wasn’t afraid to ask with the press of her body.

His arm wrapped around her, palm resting low at her back. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. She sighed—soft and full—and settled deeper, her fingers gently brushing against his bare ribs beneath the covers.

“Better?” he murmured, voice low and slow, more breath than tone.

“Mhm,” she answered into his chest.

God, she fit there. She fit like a memory he hadn’t made yet.

Kohaku let his cheek rest against the top of her head, breathing in the scent of his own damn shirt clinging to her skin, and tried to anchor himself in the now.

He had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

But right now?

She was here. Wrapped around him. Wearing his shirt. Choosing him.

And he didn’t need more than that.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Three: Gate B22 and Half-Asleep Hearts
Kohaku’s POV

The alarm buzzed at 4:30 a.m. sharp, a sound so vile and offensive it could’ve been outlawed in three prefectures. Kohaku slapped it before it reached full volume, blinking into the dim hotel room like he’d been dropped into a war zone.

Beside him, Kagome groaned.

He turned his head to find her still pressed against his side, face buried halfway into the pillow, the hem of his shirt hitched up over her hip. Her legs were tangled in the blanket. Her hair was a complete disaster. And somehow, somehow, she still looked beautiful.

But coherent? Not a chance.

“Time to get up,” he whispered against her hair, brushing it away from her cheek. “Flight in a few hours.”

She made a noise. Not a word. Just…noise. Like the sound someone makes when asked to give up a kidney.

He grinned. “Come on, sunshine. We’ve gotta beat the crowds and make it to security before your personality wakes up.”

Another groan. Then, muffled, “I’ll pay you so much money to carry me to Tokyo.”

He laughed. “You’re not that rich.”

“Watch me.”

She still hadn’t moved, so he gently peeled the blanket back and gave her hip a soft pat. “Let’s go. Clothes. Teeth. Passport. Dignity. In that order.”

She grumbled something about treason and rolled over. Which gave him just enough room to snag the leggings she’d set out the night before.

“You trust me?” he asked, half-sleepy, half-mischievous.

She cracked one eye open. “No.”

“Perfect.”

With zero ceremony, Kohaku gently tugged the leggings over her ankles and started working them up. She wiggled a little to help, still mostly limp with exhaustion. It was like dressing a drunk octopus in slow motion. At one point, her arm flopped up and hit him in the jaw, and she muttered, “Sorry. You got in the way of gravity.”

“You’re forgiven,” he said dryly. “But only because your apology was adorable.”

“Stop enjoying this,” she slurred.

“Too late.”

Once the leggings were situated, he helped her into her hoodie—his hoodie now, he noted smugly, since she’d also borrowed it last night “just to warm up” and never gave it back.

“Stand,” he ordered gently, tugging her upright.

She leaned heavily into him as he guided her toward the sink, toothbrush already prepped with toothpaste like he was some kind of sleep-deprived valet. She brushed in slow, dazed circles while using his shoulder as a pillow. It was all routine now, this strange domestic dance between them. No hesitation. Just quiet cooperation and a level of intimacy that made his chest ache.

By 5:15 a.m., their bags were packed and rolling. Kagome moved like a sleepwalking goddess, half-conscious and dragging her suitcase behind her, head leaning into Kohaku’s shoulder like he was a portable support beam.

“You good?” he asked softly as they waited for the elevator.

“No,” she mumbled, eyes still mostly closed. “But you’re warm. So that helps.”

“Lean on me,” he said. “I’ll get us through check-in.”

“I’m going to marry your biceps.”

“Unofficial wife already called dibs,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple.

They made it through the lobby, through the shuttle, and finally to the terminal. She stayed close the whole time, half-asleep and fully dependent, clutching her boarding pass like it might evaporate. He handled check-in, fielded the annoyed glances of the gate agents, even argued them into keeping their seats together when the system tried to split them up.

At the gate, she slumped into the waiting area bench with a groan, leaning into him like a tired cat. He draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her in tighter, letting her nap for the remaining thirty minutes before boarding.

And as he stared at the terminal windows, watching the sunrise creep up over the tarmac, he found himself smiling.

She trusted him.

Not with her heart—not yet. But with her sleep. With her safety. With the early morning chaos of a life that had never let her slow down.

That had to mean something.

And when she shifted closer in her sleep, sighing against his chest with a little sound that hit straight in the ribs, he knew:

Yeah. It meant everything.

Boarding was finally called, and the gate buzzed to life with motion. Lines forming, families herding, bags rolling, people jostling forward like a half-awake stampede. Kohaku barely glanced at them.

Because beside him?

Kagome was completely, unapologetically dead to the world.

Her head was mashed against his shoulder, mouth slightly open, drooling—not just cute little corner-of-the-lip sleep drool, no, this was full-on “I’ve lost all jaw function” drool. His shirt? Damp. His chest? Damp. His heart? Drenched in something way worse.

Affection.

He looked down at her—warm, soft, pressed into him like a space heater with opinions—and smiled.

Gods, she was ridiculous.

“Kagome,” he whispered, shifting slightly. “Hey. They’re boarding.”

Nothing.

“Kagome,” he said again, brushing his fingers against her arm, a little more firm. “Time to get up. You can go right back to sleep on the plane.”

Still nothing. Not even a grunt. Just a deeper slump into his shoulder, and more drool. 

He stared ahead, inhaled through his nose, and made a decision. He leaned in, close to her ear, and dropped his voice two octaves lower. Calm. Cold. Precision-carved.

The voice he used in boardrooms when someone tried to bullshit a deadline. The voice that turned managers into interns and vendors into obedient scribes.

“Kagome,” he said, low and clear, “I am giving you one warning. If you don’t open your eyes and get up, I will carry you onto this flight like a duffel bag, and I will tell the flight attendant you need a sippy cup and a nap blanket.”

Her entire body tensed.

Slowly—painfully slowly—her head lifted. One eye cracked open. She squinted at him, her lip curled in sleepy betrayal. “You can’t use that tone,” she muttered, hoarse and raspy.

He smirked. “You want to test that theory again?”

She glared. Sat up. Rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand like a grumpy toddler.

“I hate you,” she mumbled.

“Sure you do,” he said, grabbing both their bags and standing. “Come on. Let’s get to our seats before someone steals your window view.”

“I wasn’t even—ugh, never mind,” she groaned, standing too, barely conscious, hair in defiant chaos and hoodie half-zipped like she’d survived a typhoon.

He handed her the boarding pass. Let her lean on him again as they moved with the line.

And as they reached the gate and stepped into the corridor, she was quiet. Not mad. Not sulking. Just tired. And trusting.

She bumped her shoulder into his. “I’ll never forgive the business voice.”

He looked at her sidelong. “You woke up, didn’t you?”

“You threatened me with a nap blanket.”

He grinned. “And it worked.”

She grumbled something about emotional damage, but didn’t let go of his arm. By the time they made it to their row, she slumped into the window seat, sighed so hard it fogged the glass, and pulled her knees up into the chair.

Kohaku slid in next to her, settled their bags, and offered her a look. “You good?”

She mumbled, “Yeah. But if I fall asleep again and you use that tone, I will actually smother you.”

He smiled.

God, she was perfect.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Four: Domestic Terrorist in a Window Seat
Kohaku’s POV

She didn’t even last fifteen minutes.

Kagome—fully upright, grumpy-eyed, mumbling something about how planes weren’t made for normal-sized humans—had settled into her window seat with a blanket, a yawn, and exactly zero intentions of staying awake. She mumbled something about coffee. Then immediately fell asleep.

And not the polite kind of sleep either.

No.

This was tactical napping. Strategic unconscious warfare.

Like she was built to sabotage the last shreds of his restraint.

Because now?

Now she was curled into him. Fully. Entirely. Body pressed to his side with the gentle pressure of someone who had absolutely no intention of being anywhere else.

Her leg—again—draped over his thigh like she’d claimed it by ancient ritual. Her arm tucked under his. Her fingers curled in the hem of his shirt like it was contractually hers. And her cheek? Her cheek was nestled against the side of his throat.

Breathing warm little puffs into his neck.

Kohaku stared straight ahead, jaw tight, heartbeat tapping out an aggressive little SOS in his ribs.

She sighed in her sleep. Adjusted.

And bit him.

It wasn’t malicious. Not really a bite-bite. Just one of those soft, subconscious little nips that someone gives when they’re dreaming about chewing something. Her lips pressed against the tendon of his neck, her teeth grazed skin, and her nose bumped his jaw like a sleepy little battering ram.

“Holy hell,” he whispered to no one.

She nuzzled. Nuzzled.

Like a kitten on heat and instinct, trying to burrow her way into his sternum. Her head tilted until her ear was pressed right over his heartbeat. Her thigh hooked higher.

And then came the kicker—

“Mm. Kohaku,” she breathed.

Soft. Soft as fuck. Practically a purr.

His cock twitched.

He exhaled hard through his nose and stared at the seatback in front of him like it held divine answers. Like maybe if he focused hard enough, the airline safety card would teach him how to survive a domestic siren mid-dreamstorm.

She made a noise. A little whimper.

He looked down just in time to see her frown in her sleep, shift her hips slightly, and then—with the type of brazen comfort only this woman could weaponize—reach up and tug the back of his hair.

Not much. Just a little. Just enough to make him blink like he’d been short-circuited.

The hand settled there.

And when he didn’t move?

She hummed. Satisfied.

Satisfied.

He swore he’d never been so deeply and personally attacked in his goddamn life.

Because what the hell was this?

What was this?

He hadn’t even kissed her yet. Not really. Hadn’t taken her out. Hadn’t gotten to hold her hand on a walk or sit across from her in a real restaurant where she’d blush when he ordered something smooth and shameless.

And here she was.

Wrapped around him like gravity. Drooling on his chest. Leg hitching a little tighter. Wearing his T-shirt like she’d lived in it for years. Making little sleepy “mmm” sounds when his hand reached up to stroke through her hair, like she expected it.

Like she needed it.

So he gave it to her.

Slow fingers. Gentle combing through her hair. Soothing little movements down her back.

He didn’t even think about it. His body just knew.

And as her breathing deepened again, and she relaxed completely into him, her head tucked under his chin, her entire frame soft and sweet and real—

Kohaku let out the quietest, most reverent sigh of his life.

Because this wasn’t a hookup. This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t some airport misfortune that spiraled into a three-day distraction.

This?

This was home.

And it was currently drooling on his collarbone.

He smiled to himself, kissed the crown of her head once, and whispered—

“I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing to me.”

She was still sleeping.

Still curled into him like her body had memorized his shape. Like he was mattress and pillow and warmth all rolled into one. Her fingers were tangled in his shirt again, her breathing soft and even, and her leg—gods, her leg—was still slung over his like she’d planted a flag and claimed the territory.

And the longer she stayed there?

The more his brain spiraled.

Because this? This domestic, sleepy chaos of a woman wrapped around him like peace? It was destroying his logic one sigh at a time.

He had planned to spend the next month with his family. Stay with Sango. Show up for his niece’s birthday. Let the company breathe while his managers finally ran the numbers themselves. Maybe hit the gym. Maybe sleep in a little. Visit the countryside. Help his dad fix the damn fence.

But that plan—that version of the month—felt pale now.

Felt small.

Because the more he thought about her leaving after they landed—about her calling an Uber and walking away from him with that tired little smile she used when she didn’t want anyone to know she was sad?

The more his stomach twisted into knots.

Fuck, he hated that image.

What if—just what if—they didn’t spend this month apart? What if they didn’t go back to separate homes and wait for dinner dates and schedules and the inevitable drop-off of “well, life just got busy”?

What if they tested this? For real.

Hear him out:

They find an Airbnb. Something quiet. Just outside the city. Enough for them both. A house—not a hotel, not a temporary layover—a home. Just for the month.

He could still see his family. Drive down. Get lunch. Show up to Sango’s place and let her interrogate him in peace. And Kagome?

Kagome could work. Could drive to the office. Could see her brother. Could Uber across town and visit friends or walk around the old neighborhoods that once made her feel like Tokyo was hers.

And at the end of every day?

She could come home to him.

And he to her.

No pressure. No lifelong promises. No “move in with me forever.” Just… a test run. A month to figure out if this chaos had roots. If waking up together wasn’t a fluke but a rhythm.

If they could do the small things—like dishes and laundry and deciding on dinner without combusting.

He looked down at her again.

Watched her shift, nuzzle into his chest like his heartbeat had a lullaby laced inside it. Heard the way she sighed when his fingers swept through her hair again.

Yeah.

Yeah, he wanted that every day.

He wanted this every damn day.

And he knew—knew—she’d be cautious. That she’d overthink. That she’d find twenty reasons to talk herself out of it. But maybe—just maybe—if he offered it right, if he made it low-pressure, if he framed it not as a grand proposal but a practical solution?

She might say yes.

Because the way she clung to him in her sleep told a truth her mouth hadn’t caught up to yet.

They were already doing this.

They just hadn’t named it.

And gods help him, he was ready to see what naming it would feel like.

He looked out the window, sunrise spilling over the clouds in that soft, golden way it did when the world wasn’t paying attention. And he whispered, barely audible:

“Let’s build something. Just for a month. Just to see.”

And when she stirred at the sound of his voice and mumbled something against his chest, like mmwhatdyou say, he just kissed her temple.

“Nothing yet,” he murmured. “But I’ll ask you when we land.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Idiot and the Offer
Kohaku’s POV

They were landing.

And Kohaku?

Kohaku was losing his fucking mind.

The seatbelt sign had just blinked on. The captain was droning about their descent into Tokyo, something about wind speed and arrival gates. He didn’t hear a damn word of it.

Because next to him, Kagome stirred.

Sleep-flushed, hair wild, shirt still his, she stretched like a lazy cat in a sunbeam and mumbled something incoherent about wanting coffee and maybe vengeance. Her hand reached for his knee like it belonged there—warm, casual, devastating.

And all Kohaku could think was: I am going to ruin this.

He was sweating.

Not visibly. Not in a puddle-on-the-plane-seat kind of way. But internally? Emotionally? Existentially?

Fully soaked.

Because he was about to do something insane. Unhinged. Ballsy. Ask a woman he’s known for—what, three days?—to live with him for a month.

Cool. Normal. Very reasonable behavior for someone who had previously avoided relationships like they were contagious.

Except none of that mattered.

Because the second they stepped off this plane, she’d go back to her place, and he’d go back to his. And that—that—felt worse than being insane.

The thought of going even a day without her? Without watching her nap like a needy little heat-seeking missile, or hearing her sigh his name like it belonged to her, or feeling the way she reached for him in her sleep?

Hell.

Straight hell.

So, naturally, he decided to handle this with maturity and composure.

Step One: Help her wake up without being a menace.

“Kagome,” he murmured, brushing her arm. “We’re landing.”

She blinked slowly, nuzzled his shoulder. “Hmph. Land without me.”

God, she was cute.

He laughed, soft. “I’d rather not get arrested for kidnapping your unconscious body off the plane.”

“Sounds fake,” she muttered, but she sat up, rubbed her face, yawned like it was a personal act of violence, and let him tuck a few stray hairs behind her ear without protest.

He helped with her bag. Helped with her hoodie. Helped guide her off the plane while telling himself be chill, be chill, be chill like it was a sacred mantra.

And as they walked through the terminal, side by side, her body still leaning into his without thinking—he was not chill.

At all.

He had already booked the place.

A modest, clean Airbnb outside the city. Quiet. Comfortable. Room for two. Close enough to her work and family that she wouldn’t feel boxed in. Just far enough from his own that he wouldn’t get guilt-tripped by Sango every hour.

He didn’t even regret booking it ahead of asking her.

Because if she said yes? He wanted everything ready. Wanted her to walk in and feel like she could breathe. Wanted her to know he meant it.

But now? Now he was carrying both their carry-ons and internally monologuing like a man on the edge.

She looked up at him once near the escalator, still sleepy, still quiet, and smiled.

And he nearly bailed right there.

By the time they made it to luggage claim, he thought he’d missed his chance. Maybe he should just text her later. Be casual. Be cool.

But then she yawned again and leaned on his arm and he—

He said it.

“Hey,” he started, voice rough, casual. “Listen—I, uh. I had a thought.”

She turned to him, curious.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I booked a place. Just outside the city. Airbnb.”

She blinked. “For?”

“Well.” He exhaled. “I thought… if we’re both staying here a few weeks. Working. Seeing family. I figured—what if we stayed together? You don’t have to, obviously. No pressure. I just—thought maybe it’d make sense.”

Her brows lifted slightly. A mix of surprise. Caution. That same conflict he’d started to recognize on her face whenever she weighed hope against disappointment.

“Kohaku…”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything huge,” he added quickly, hands up like he was talking someone off a ledge. “Just—option’s there. If anything goes sideways. Or you want space from your family. Or—fuck, I don’t know. If you just want your own coffee pot and not some vending machine sludge.”

Her eyes dropped.

He could see the wheels turning in her head. Not just about logistics. About meaning. About what this could turn into, or what it could break.

Finally, softly, she said, “I’ll think about it.”

And that?

That stabbed. Not because she didn’t have the right to think about it. But because the part of him that had already decided she fit into every square inch of his life wanted her to know instantly.

But he nodded. Smiled. Shrugged like it was casual.

“Cool,” he said, hands in his pockets. “Just wanted you to know it’s there.”

Even if his stupid, traitorous heart was screaming: Say yes, say yes, say yes.

And when she nodded, her voice quiet, “Thanks for offering,” he just smiled again.

Played it off.

Played it so fucking cool.

While internally?

He was already throttling himself. Or the universe. Or whoever made it so that a three-day miracle could still feel so uncertain on day four.

God.

He was going to have a fucking heart attack.

Or an anxiety stroke. Or maybe both. Something brutal and fatal and humiliating, right there in the middle of Tokyo International, because that’s how the universe wanted to end his story—a half-sane idiot with a duffel bag, a dream, and a heartbreak he wasn’t allowed to call heartbreak yet.

Because she wasn’t coming with him.

They’d grabbed their bags. Rolled through the terminal in an awkward silence that shouldn’t have been awkward, but was—because neither of them knew how to say goodbye after three days of acting like they were married in five different countries and one overheated hotel bed.

And she?

She had called her own Uber.

He’d heard the ping.

He’d seen her screen light up out of the corner of his eye. No shared ride. No “I’ll come with you, then figure it out from there.” Just—hers. Separate. Final.

And he? Had called his.

Because he was trying—trying so fucking hard—to respect whatever delicate system of boundaries she was constructing in her head. He could feel them settling into place. Quiet. Precise. Rational.

She was choosing her own ride. Her own route. Her own rhythm.

And he respected that.

He did.

Right up until his phone buzzed—Your Uber has arrived—and she smiled at him like it didn’t gut her too.

Not a big smile. Just a little one. A tired one. A polite, thank you for being a lovely stranger kind of smile.

He wanted to burn the airport to the fucking ground.

But he forced himself to smile back. Managed a single head tilt. “Dinner tomorrow,” he said, like it was no big deal. Like his heart wasn’t fucking rupturing under the weight of leaving her behind.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Yeah.

He turned. Walked toward his ride. Didn’t look back. Because if he looked back, he’d run back.

The Uber was waiting by the curb, driver half-asleep behind the wheel. Kohaku slid in, dumped his bag beside him, closed the door—and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since they left the plane.

This was fine.

This was fine.

They had dinner plans. They had each other’s numbers. This wasn’t the end, it was just a pause. A slow exhale before whatever came next. Adults made space. They figured it out. They didn’t cling.

Except every cell in his body wanted to cling.

And his Uber? Did not move. Traffic. Of fucking course. Stuck in a sea of horn-blaring, suitcase-dragging, family-shouting Tokyo chaos. The car crawled forward half a meter and stopped again. His driver muttered something under his breath.

Kohaku locked his jaw, stared at his phone, and ordered himself—do not look back. Do not be that guy.

And then—

The door opened.

A rush of air. A soft thud. A whispered: “Fuck it.”

And there she was.

Kagome.

Hair wild. Breath shallow. Shoulders tense. Inside his Uber. Sliding in like she’d just sprinted through the gates of indecision and finally told herself to shut the hell up.

She didn’t look at him. Not right away. Just buckled her seatbelt, stared ahead, and let out a long, embarrassed sigh.

Kohaku turned. Watched her profile. The flush on her cheek. The way her jaw clenched like she was bracing for him to laugh. Or gloat. Or ruin the moment by being cocky.

He said nothing.

Not yet.

Just leaned back in his seat. Tried not to smile too wide. Or breathe too loud. Or let his heart do that dumb, thundering gallop that made him feel seventeen and feral.

She finally turned her head.

Eyes narrow. Defiant.

“Don’t make it a thing.”

He raised his brows. “Make what a thing?”

She huffed. “You know exactly what.”

He grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Nope. No idea. I just saw a gorgeous woman get into my Uber like fate sent her.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re in my car.”

“I know,” she groaned. “I was standing there. I saw you leave. I said goodbye. And then I thought—fuck, I hate this. I hate this weird limbo. I hate waiting to see if it’s going to fade. So yeah. I got in. Don’t read into it.”

Kohaku reached across the seat. Laced their fingers together.

She stared at their hands.

He murmured, low and steady, “No reading. Just facts. You’re here.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m here.”

And when she leaned her head on his shoulder, he exhaled for real this time.

Because fuck the rules. Fuck the timeline.

They were here.

Together.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Brave Thing
Kohaku’s POV

This had to be heaven.

There was no other explanation. He’d clearly died somewhere between the airport gate and the Uber queue. Heart exploded, soul yeeted into the ether, and this? This slow-rolling Tokyo traffic with a warm, suspiciously quiet Kagome tucked into the seat beside him—this was his reward for living a good and marginally honorable life.

Because this was not the plan.

The plan—painful, practical, stupid—had been for her to walk away. To go to her brother’s. Or her apartment. Or some sterile hotel room where her guilt and her overthinking could fester in peace. The plan had been for him to get dropped off alone at the Airbnb he’d already rented like a desperate fool with a Plan A and no Plan B. To unpack in silence. To stare at the blank ceiling and think about all the things he should’ve said differently at the baggage claim.

But now?

Now she was here. In the car. In the space next to him. Checking her phone with that haunted little furrow in her brow that meant she was absolutely spiraling about her choices—but still doing it while next to him.

It felt like fucking magic.

His phone buzzed in his hand. Family group chat: Disaster and Legacy™.

Sango: “You’re not coming to the house?”

Kohaku: “Got a place. Staying in the city.”

Mom: “Since when do you stay in the city?”

Dad: “Are you sick?”

Sango: “Enjoy your month with the mystery woman. Don’t forget to hydrate.”

Miroku: “Details. I expect them when I see you.”

He didn’t reply. Just locked his screen and dropped the phone in his lap with a low hum of amusement. Because Sango knew. Of course she fucking knew. She probably knew before he did. That’s the curse of having a sister who saw through bullshit like glass.

Beside him, Kagome was muttering quietly into her phone, holding it a little too tight, screen lit up with a dozen unread texts. He didn’t peek—not really—but her voice was soft and flustered.

“Souta, at least try to pretend to believe me when I lie,” she hissed. “No, I’m not…no, it’s not like that—you weren’t there. Shut up. No. We’re staying at a house because family is exhausting and we both need sleep and boundaries and—oh my God, no I’m not moving in. It’s a trial—not like that, you little shit.”

Kohaku grinned to himself and watched the city blur by, sun cutting through narrow alleys and bouncing off neon signs. It was warm. Bright. Loud.

And all he could think was she got in the car.

Because that? That was everything.

She didn’t have to. She could’ve waved. Said goodbye. Said “text me.” She could’ve stuck to the boundary between airport intimacy and real-world distance. But she didn’t.

She got in the car.

And sure—she was spiraling about it now. He could feel it. Her fingers twitching. Her knee bouncing. Her silence loud as hell. But she’d done the hard thing. The scary thing. The brave thing.

And that was enough.

He didn’t need her to be cool or confident. Didn’t need her to pretend like she had it together. Hell, he liked her better when she didn’t. When she spiraled in real time and still chose him anyway.

Because Kagome Higurashi?

Was not logical.

Logical people didn’t fall asleep on strangers in coach seating. Didn’t cuddle with half-naked men in shared hotel beds. Didn’t whisper work grievances in their sleep or bury their hands under a man’s shirt like it was their favorite place to rest.

Logical people didn’t call him their “unofficial husband” and then hurl themselves into his Uber like a war declaration.

She wasn’t logical.

She was brave.

And gods, he could work with brave.

Their ride slowed to a crawl at a long light near a quiet neighborhood. The Airbnb he’d picked was in a quieter part of the city—still central enough to get around, still beautiful, but tucked away from the buzz. He didn’t want chaos. He wanted stillness. A house with a real bed. A kitchen they might use once. A place she could breathe.

“You okay?” he asked finally, low and careful.

She didn’t look at him. Just nodded slowly. “Yep.”

Liar. But he let it go. For now. Instead, he reached over and gave her hand a small squeeze. Gentle. Casual.

She didn’t pull away.

The car rolled to a stop at the curb of a quiet street, the engine a low hum against the early afternoon calm. Kohaku opened the door first, stepping out into the warm Tokyo air that smelled faintly of rain and pavement. It was peaceful here—no honking, no vendors yelling over each other, just the hush of wind against leaves and the faint distant clink of someone setting down tea cups two houses away.

Kagome followed, climbing out slowly, her eyes still clouded with that heavy mix of what-the-fuck-have-I-done and please-don’t-let-me-regret-this. She didn’t speak. Just stood next to him, arms folded lightly over her chest, staring up at the house with a gaze that was half suspicious and half… hopeful.

He didn’t say anything either. Just grabbed both their bags from the trunk and slung hers over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

Because it didn’t.

Not compared to the lead-heavy dread that had clung to his chest all morning. The fear that this would fall apart before it ever started.

But now?

Now they were here.

And the house?

The house was fucking perfect.

Clean lines. Glass panels. Matte black trim on modern wood finishes. The kind of place that whispered peace and said, Yes, you deserve this. A two-story rental with sliding doors, a wraparound porch, and a tiny gravel garden like a promise tucked into the corner. Inside, there were recessed lights, real hardwood floors, a sofa that begged for napping, and a kitchen so sharp it looked like it was designed by a chef and a minimalist with shared god complex.

He didn’t need to look at her to know she was impressed.

Didn’t need to hear the way her footsteps slowed or feel the way her fingers grazed the doorframe as they stepped inside.

She was already doing the math. He could feel it. Airbnb like this? For a month? In Tokyo?

And sure enough—

“I should pitch in for part of this,” she said, voice polite, level, perfectly pitched like she hadn’t already done something completely fucking insane and brave by staying with him at all.

He turned his back to her mid-sentence.

Cut her off with movement alone.

Walked deeper into the house, set her bag down by the stairs, and said over his shoulder without even looking:

“You’re paying me in bravery.”

Silence. Then footsteps. Then more silence. She stopped behind him, hands on her hips now, probably about to argue.

So he turned. Met her gaze. Slow and certain.

“You got in the car,” he said, voice calm, quiet. “You didn’t have to. You did it anyway. That’s your rent.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Reopened like maybe she wanted to fight it. To say something clever or dismissive or practical.

But what came out was small. Honest.

“That’s a really weird currency.”

He smiled. “Yeah, well. It’s non-refundable.”

And then—gods, he’d remember this look forever—she smiled. Real. Soft. A little wary, but bright enough to reach the corners of her eyes.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, stepping past him, taking in the living room like she was pretending not to be overwhelmed.

He watched her fingers trail along the edge of the kitchen island, watched her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear like she wasn’t quietly assessing if this was safe. If he was safe.

“You think this is bad,” he said, reaching for the fridge to load the few snacks he’d bought the night before in secret, “wait until you see how impossible I am to cook with. I demand sole control of the seasoning cabinet.”

She snorted.

Progress.

They moved through the house slowly, her feet tapping softly across the floors, him pretending to tidy as a distraction. But his eyes kept landing on her. Her soft expressions. Her little huffs. The way her spine slowly uncoiled as the house began to feel like something more than a borrowed roof.

Eventually she sank into the couch like it owed her something and stared at the ceiling, legs curled beneath her.

“So,” she said. “One month.”

“One month,” he echoed.

“You planning to drive me crazy or…?”

He walked over, dropped onto the couch beside her, and stretched out one arm lazily across the back, the very picture of arrogant peace.

“I plan to make it worthwhile.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned.

And beneath the flicker of nerves in her eyes, he saw it again—that spark of belief. The fragile little flicker that maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t made a mistake.

And for the first time all day, Kohaku felt himself relax.

Because no matter how logical or unplanned or absurd this all was?

She was here.

And that—her presence, her bravery, her stubborn heartbeat still pounding next to his—was worth more than rent could ever buy.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Guest Room Standoff
Kohaku’s POV

By the time late afternoon sunlight stretched through the windows and draped golden warmth over the living room floor, things had finally settled.

Really settled.

Kagome had found the coffee mugs, organized her skincare in the bathroom, and plugged her charger into the closest outlet beside the couch like she’d lived there a week instead of twenty minutes. She still moved a little like she was waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under her, but she also sighed when she sat down—and that? That sigh meant she was trying.

And gods, he’d take trying. Trying was everything.

He had plans to stop by his sister’s tomorrow. Let his niece crawl all over him, pretend Miroku’s barbecue wasn’t under-seasoned, and field Sango’s attempts to get him to confess every detail. He was prepped. Calm. Braced for war.

Kagome, on the other hand, had mentioned she needed to stop by the Tokyo branch office. Something about catching up on a backlog and seeing her team in person. He hadn’t pried. Just nodded. Because that was the deal, right?

Real life, with each other at the end of it.

That was what they were testing. 

Wake up, go about their day, come home to the same roof. And so far? They were doing pretty damn well.

Until she wandered down the hall with her duffel in hand and turned left.

Left.

Toward the guest room.

Kohaku paused mid-text—he’d been confirming his family visit for 10 a.m.—and blinked.

No. No, no, no.

Not today, Satan.

He followed her casually, rounding the hallway corner just in time to see her dropping her bag on the neatly made guest bed. It was a nice room. Clean lines, soft neutrals, plenty of light. But it wasn’t the point.

The point was she was nesting in the wrong damn room.

“…Interesting,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

Kagome froze. Slowly turned.

“Something wrong?”

“Oh no,” he said, tone light, lazy. “Just wondering when the unofficial husband and wife started fighting.”

She narrowed her eyes. “We’re not fighting.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You’re sleeping down the hall like we’re getting a divorce.”

“It’s not like that,” she said, clearly defensive, clearly lying. “I just didn’t want to assume.”

“You climbed into my lap in a hotel bed and purred when I rubbed your head,” he deadpanned. “Assumption ship has sailed, Higurashi.”

Her jaw worked. Her ears were turning pink.

He tilted his head and pushed off the wall, walking past her to scoop up her bag like it weighed nothing. She didn’t stop him. Just watched, mildly horrified, as he turned and headed right back down the hall.

“Main bedroom has blackout curtains,” he called over his shoulder. “And the better mattress. Just saying.”

“You’re such a—”

“Domestic delight? Yeah, I know.”

He tossed her bag onto the bed like it belonged there and flopped down beside it with a sigh, arms behind his head, like he hadn’t just claimed victory in a battle she didn’t know they were having.

Kagome stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression tight. But she didn’t leave.

Didn’t take her bag back. Didn’t argue. Instead, she made a low, muttering noise—part sigh, part grumble, part something else entirely—and crossed the room to unzip the duffel.

“Just temporary,” she mumbled.

“Totally,” he agreed, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“Only because I don’t want to pack it all again if I change my mind.”

“Obviously.”

“Not because I’m committing to co-sleeping or whatever.”

“Perish the thought.”

She glared.

He smiled.

And when she finally gave in with a theatrical eye-roll and started transferring her toiletries to the shared bathroom like it wasn’t a big deal, he leaned back against the pillows, warmth spreading through his chest like sunlight on skin.

The sound of soft zippers, drawers sliding, and the occasional huff of mild resentment floated from the bathroom as Kagome did what she always did when she tried to act unfazed—organized. He could hear her muttering under her breath as she aligned toiletries with surgical precision, then again when she opened and closed the dresser drawers, clearly trying to pretend like she wasn’t conceding anything.

Kohaku didn’t move. Just laid back on the bed like he was king of the mountain she’d just surrendered, hands folded under his head, watching the ceiling like it had secrets only he could hear.

He waited.

Waited for her to finish being stubborn.

Waited for the moment she accepted that sleeping beside him had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with comfort. With them. With the way her breathing slowed when his arm wrapped around her waist. The way she always curled toward his heat like a plant chasing sunlight.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, her hair up in a loose, messy twist and her face clean, there was a resigned tilt to her lips. No fire. Just defeat. The soft kind.

She didn’t look at him when she walked to her side of the bed.

Didn’t say anything when she pulled the blanket back, climbed in, and laid beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But after a beat, she sighed. Stared at the ceiling.

“…Okay,” she muttered, “this bed is comfier than the guest bed.”

He didn’t smirk. Not outwardly. He kept his voice calm. Lazy. Like he hadn’t been waiting for that exact sentence with the patience of a saint.

“Mmm. Yeah?”

She gave him a side-eye. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing.”

“Kohaku.”

“Yes, unofficial wife?”

She groaned. Loudly. But he caught the corner of her mouth twitching.

“…It’s only more comfortable because you’re in it,” she grumbled. “Obviously.”

He turned his head just slightly, meeting her stare with a lifted brow and a satisfied hum.

“Of course. Everything’s better with an unofficial husband in it.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t even roll her eyes. She just…sprawled.

Laid on her back, hair fanning out, arms tucked beneath her head in a perfect mirror of his earlier pose. Legs stretched out toward the foot of the bed, toes just barely brushing his calf under the blanket.

And she stared at the ceiling like maybe the truth was up there. Or maybe she was trying to keep herself from looking at him too long.

“This is so weird,” she whispered after a beat. “All of it.”

He nodded, voice low. “Yup.”

“I should feel crazier.”

“You probably do. You’re just suppressing it like a healthy adult.”

She laughed under her breath, soft and sweet. “This doesn’t feel temporary.”

“Nope.”

She exhaled slowly, her chest rising and falling beside him. They didn’t touch. Not yet. But gods, the space between them was thick with everything unsaid.

Eventually, her hand shifted—just a little. Fingers brushing the hem of his shirt, catching fabric between them like she couldn’t help herself.

“I think I hate that I like this so much,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. Just turned his head to face her, voice soft but certain:

“Get used to it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Produce, Plural, and Panic
Kohaku’s POV

Kohaku swung his legs out of bed with a stretch that cracked his spine just right. The house was quiet, sun slipping in through the sheer curtains like it knew they had one last lazy day before normal life resumed. His bare feet hit the floor, and he ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, glancing over his shoulder.

Kagome was still stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed her something. Blanket tangled around her legs, hair a wild halo. His shirt had shifted again—one shoulder bare, hem riding high up her thighs. Dangerous levels of distraction. He cleared his throat.

“I was thinking,” he started casually, as if his heart hadn’t just tried to sprint out of his chest at the sight of her, “we should probably stock the kitchen. You wanna go grocery shopping?”

She groaned. Rolled her head to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Really getting into our unofficial titles, huh?”

He quirked a brow.

She yawned, then muttered, deadpan: “First grocery shopping, then what? Babies?”

There was a beat of silence. Just one. But for Kohaku 
That second? Was a catapult straight off the edge of a mental cliff.

Babies. 

Plural. Not baby. Not the hypothetical one.

Babies.

Kagome, sprawled in his bed, in his shirt, on their first full day in their temporary house, had casually lobbed the word “babies” into the conversation like it was part of a natural progression.

And sure—he was smart enough to know it was a joke. A dry, sarcastic jab meant to poke fun at their hyper-domestic setup. But gods, his brain didn’t take it that way. No, his brain heard the word babies and immediately launched into a full-blown simulation of Kagome barefoot in this kitchen, pregnant and cranky, yelling at him about the wrong brand of peanut butter while toddlers screamed in the background.

He stared at her.

She was completely unbothered.

Still lazily watching him with one raised brow, like she hadn’t just drop-kicked his equilibrium into next week.

“…Plural, huh?” he managed eventually, voice rough.

Kagome blinked. Then her eyes widened a fraction. Like she realized what she’d said, and how it sounded.

“Oh my god,” she groaned, burying her face in his pillow. “That was not a serious suggestion—”

“Oh, I know,” he cut in smoothly. “We’d need at least two years, three bedrooms, and an SUV with good trunk space.”

She made a strangled sound into the pillow. “Kohaku—”

“Probably a dog too,” he added thoughtfully. “Something fluffy. Kid-friendly. Maybe a Samoyed.”

“Kohaku, I swear to god—”

“But yes,” he said, turning and starting for the closet with deliberate calm. “Let’s start with groceries. If you behave, we can swing by the baby aisle on the way out.”

“KOH—!”

He was already laughing by the time she flung a pillow at him. He dodged it easily, disappearing into the closet with his grin echoing behind him.

God, he loved how easy this was. How fast they fell into rhythm. She gave as good as she got. And that meant everything.

Still…he wasn’t kidding about the grocery store. If they were really doing this—really sharing a month under one roof—then they needed more than coffee and a sad box of granola bars.

Ten minutes later, dressed and pretending not to still be thinking about toddlers with her sleepy eyes, he stepped into the hallway, holding up her keys.

“Last chance,” he called. “You want to do this now, or after we have three kids and a minivan?”

She appeared in the doorway, hair up, face glowing from laughter she was trying to suppress.

“Get in the car, Dad,” she said dryly. “Before I change my mind and order takeout for a month.”

He winked. “No promises we won’t still end up with the babies.”

And when she turned red again?

He decided, yeah.
He could live off that reaction for a while.

They could’ve walked.

The AirBnB was close enough to the local market that a twenty-minute stroll—tops—would’ve gotten them there with time to spare and a nice breeze on their backs.

But no.

Kagome had been tired. Still adjusting to being in a new place, with a new man, in what was absolutely a domestic partnership masquerading as “just a little vacation extension.” So when he asked if she wanted to Uber, she didn’t protest. And when she leaned her head against the car window like a sleepy cat in his hoodie, Kohaku didn’t push it either.

Still. He made a mental note to pick up either his motorcycle or his car from the family house tomorrow. Preferably both. Because if this whole thing worked—and gods, he was beginning to really want it to—then they’d need options. Especially for long drives. Or late-night convenience store runs when Kagome suddenly needed snacks. Or pickles. Or both. Possibly while pregnant.

Stop, he scolded himself silently. You are grocery shopping, not planning a baby shower.

They arrived in ten minutes flat.

Kagome grabbed a cart with more enthusiasm than he expected, like the grocery store was her version of a therapy session. Her list was mental, but precise. She led the way past produce with a firm turn of her heel, muttering things like “essentials first” and “I swear, if we run out of tea, I’ll riot.”

He followed with a smirk, letting her take the lead.

It was good. Normal. The kind of mundane domesticity he didn’t know he craved until this exact moment. Watching her compare brands of miso paste while swearing one was a scam? Yeah. He could get used to that.

And then—

Disaster.

No warning. No escape.

Just the soul-freezing moment of fate swinging a wrecking ball through his temporary fantasy.

Because at the end of the damn aisle, next to the pasta display, standing in workout leggings and a hoodie that said “World’s Okayest Sister,” was Sango.

His blood turned to stone.

She wasn’t looking at groceries. She wasn’t even moving. Just standing there, frozen, eyes locked directly on him like a lion clocking her prey. Slow. Calculating. Quietly amused.

Oh, and she was chewing gum. Like a villain.

Kohaku swore internally.

He glanced at Kagome—thank god she had her back to him, currently inspecting the difference between soba noodles like the fate of the nation depended on it.

But Sango? Sango saw everything. She tilted her head. Eyes flicked to Kagome. Back to him.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t wave.Didn’t even smirk. She just slowly, deliberately…pointed at Kagome. Then raised one eyebrow.

Kohaku shook his head minutely. A soft, subtle don’t-you-dare kind of shake. One that begged her for mercy.

Sango’s eyebrow went higher.

She made a tiny circling gesture with her finger, like “do a spin,” clearly referring to Kagome’s outfit—or maybe just the entire situation—because Kagome was still in his hoodie, with her hair in a lazy bun and that “I live here now” air around her.

He widened his eyes and shook his head again, sharper this time.

Drop it, Sango.

His sister shrugged. Popped her gum. Took a step backward into another aisle like she hadn’t just drop-kicked his composure in front of the soup section.

And just like that—gone.

Kagome finally turned around with two different boxes in hand, brow furrowed. “Okay, help me out. This one’s better texture but this one cooks faster. And I hate soggy noodles.”

He cleared his throat, forced casual. “Uh. Right. Go with the one with better texture.”

“You sure?”

He nodded, even as his stomach was still halfway digesting panic.

She tossed it in the cart. “You good?”

“Yup.”

“You look weird.”

“I always look weird.”

“Fair.”

They continued down the aisle, and Kohaku tried to remember how to breathe. Sango wasn’t going to let this go. He knew it. That eyebrow? The gum? The spin gesture? She was going to roast him alive. But later.

For now? He had to survive this shopping trip. With a woman in his hoodie. Buying groceries. Like they were building a life.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Exposure Therapy (Family Edition)
Kohaku’s POV

It took five seconds. 

Five.

From the moment Sango vanished like a smug ninja in the soba aisle to the exact moment Kohaku’s phone buzzed with a very familiar vengeance.

Sango [2:41 PM]:
Living alone for work my ass. I fucking knew it.

He barely suppressed a groan. His hands were full—bread, eggs, and Kagome’s preferred brand of kombu—but his heart was full of dread. The next ping came seconds later, and he knew—knew—it was the nail in the coffin.

Family Group Chat [2:42 PM]:
📸 Photo Attachment: Kohaku and Mystery Woman, Aisle 7
Caption: Found my long lost brother and his hoodie thief. She’s cute. Does she bite?

The photo was crystal fucking clear. Sango had framed it like she worked for National Geographic, catching a wild domestic Kohaku in his natural habitat, trailing behind a pretty woman in his oversized hoodie with a dumb, domesticated look on his face.

And right beneath it—

Miroku [2:42 PM]:
So…you met on a plane, spent two nights in a hotel room, and now you’re living together?
Tell me everything or I swear to god I’m driving over right now.
This is better than TV.

Kohaku shoved his phone into his pocket like it had personally betrayed him.

And then.

Then.

The gods, in all their cosmic comedy, decided to crank the chaos up another notch. From the corner of his vision, he saw movement—fluid, deliberate, and so not good.

Sango.

Back in the aisle.

Wearing her best “I’m a totally random stranger” face, which was absolutely not convincing. Not to anyone who had ever met her. Or met him.

She sauntered up casually, as if she just so happened to be passing through this particular aisle in this particular store at this particular time, and gently bumped into Kagome’s cart.

“Oh! Sorry about that,” she chirped, eyes all fake innocence and mischief. “Hey—I love your hoodie. Where’d you get it?”

Kagome, mid-debate over tofu firmness, blinked. “Oh, uh—it’s… my—uh…”

Her eyes darted to Kohaku. And Kohaku? Wanted to dissolve into the fucking rice shelf. But he kept his composure. Barely. Just raised an eyebrow, daring Sango to take it further.

Sango grinned. “Looks super comfy. Bet it smells good too.”

Kagome cleared her throat. “It does, actually.”

“Well,” Sango beamed. “It suits you.”

And then she disappeared again—vanishing like the cursed folklore creature she was.

Kagome turned, clearly confused. “That was nice.”

Kohaku smiled, tight. “Mhm.”

Kagome stared at him a little longer. “Weird nice.”

“Yup.”

And then, just to pour salt on his barely-healed sense of privacy, his phone buzzed again in his pocket. He pulled it out with the kind of dread usually reserved for horror movie protagonists.

Sango [2:44 PM]:
She’s got good taste. I like her.
Tell her I’ll see her at the next family dinner.
Oh wait—you didn’t tell her you have a crazy sister yet? Oops.

Kohaku considered throwing his phone into the discount bin of daikon radishes.

Instead, he took a steadying breath, glanced at Kagome—still blissfully unaware of the digital war zone occurring in his pocket—and said the only thing he could think of:

“Do you want ice cream? I feel like this shopping trip could use ice cream.”

Kagome smiled. “Only if it’s mochi.”

He nodded. “Mochi it is.”

And as they turned into the frozen foods aisle, Kohaku braced himself for what was shaping up to be the weirdest meet-the-family arc in the history of accidental relationships.

At least she liked the hoodie.

They made it.

Somehow—miraculously—they made it out of the grocery store without another ambush from his sister or another group chat ambush from his family.

No more cursed photos. No more passive-aggressive texts. No more Miroku demanding timestamps and kiss counts.

Just groceries. And peace. And Kagome, who had taken to holding onto the mochi like it was her emotional support dessert the entire ride home.

By the time they got back to the house, the bags were inside, shoes were off, and peace settled over the space like it hadn’t just hosted familial warfare by text earlier that afternoon.

Kohaku was still sorting fridge items—eggs, greens, kombu, chicken—when he turned and froze.

Kagome was not helping.

Kagome, instead, had peeled the mochi box open, popped one between her lips, and was now sitting on the kitchen island like she hadn’t just sabotaged dinner prep with sticky rice and strawberry ice cream.

He stared at her.

She blinked back, cheeks full, pink mochi held between two fingers like she was weighing her next move. She chewed slowly. Guiltily.

“Is this…” he drawled, setting a carton of milk down with dramatic patience, “what our life is going to be?”

She raised a brow.

He gestured broadly, theatrically, to the crime scene. “You, ignoring dinner plans, devouring frozen rice balls, sitting on the counter like a kitchen witch?”

Kagome licked powdered sugar from her lip, not even a little apologetic. “Mmm. Possibly.”

He crossed his arms. “So ice cream is dinner now?”

She grinned. “It’s mochi. That’s different.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So let me get this straight. You, my unofficial wife, are going to declare frozen desserts as a legitimate meal?”

She smirked. “Are you going to stop me?”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, watching the slight hitch in her breath as he boxed her in at the counter. “No. But I’m thinking ahead.”

“Dangerous,” she muttered, popping another mochi into her mouth.

He tilted his head. “If this is how you eat now, what are your pregnancy cravings going to be like?”

The sound she made was somewhere between a gasp, a cough, and a choke. Her hand flailed for the counter. “I—excuse me?!”

He shrugged, too calm, grabbing a mochi from her box and taking a bite without breaking eye contact. “I’m just saying. If we’re skipping dinner and you’re mainlining sugar like it’s medicine, I’m concerned for our future child’s in-utero menu.”

Kagome made a strangled noise. “You can’t just say ‘our future child’ like that in a casual grocery recap!”

“Why not?” he asked, deadpan. “We’ve already lived together. Slept in the same bed. You’ve stolen my clothes. Sprawled over me like furniture. You’re eating mochi instead of real food. The next logical step is terrifying hormonal cravings at 3 a.m. and me driving to get you weirdly specific snacks.”

Her jaw dropped.

He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice, “Pickles and pudding, maybe. Or wasabi popcorn. Gods help me if it’s canned peaches and I can’t find them.”

“Kohaku—!”

“You’d bite me,” he added dramatically. “I’d be a mauled husband by the second trimester.”

“Kohaku!”

He grinned.

Her face was bright red, but her eyes were sparkling. She tried to glare, but it faltered under his playful smirk.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to launch you out the window,” she mumbled.

He took another bite of mochi. “You’re lucky I like the idea of you pregnant with my kids.”

She froze.

Dead stop.

Her breath hitched, hands still, lips parted.

Kohaku waited a beat, gave her the out—always gave her the out—and when she didn’t bolt, didn’t speak, didn’t scold him, he just softened his tone, stepped back, and grabbed more groceries.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You don’t have to react. I’m just saying—ice cream for dinner? Dangerous precedent, unofficial wife. You’ll have to let me cook you something real eventually.”

She didn’t reply right away.

But when he handed her the rice bag and she brushed his fingers with hers, her hand lingered just a second longer than necessary.

And when she slid off the counter to help him put the rest away, she nudged his hip with hers and said softly, “I like pickles.”

He smiled.

Oh yeah.

He was screwed.

And he liked it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty : No Other Girlfriends
Kohaku’s POV

Did they skip dinner?

Absolutely.

Was he going to scold her for it?

Not a chance in hell.

She was full on mochi and powdered sugar and sugar-high teasing. And he? Gods—he was full on whatever this was. This heavy warmth in his chest. This bone-deep satisfaction. This quiet buzz under his skin like the start of a fever that didn’t hurt.

They’d finished cleaning the kitchen—halfheartedly. Mostly putting things away with low, easy laughter. She’d teased him about being too organized. He’d teased her about being feral with frozen desserts.

And then she turned on the TV and collapsed dramatically on the couch with a noise of exhaustion that didn’t match the way her limbs fidgeted. Restless. Too many thoughts. He could tell.

She couldn’t find a position. Threw a throw pillow. Kicked off one sock. Sighed like she was being wronged by the gods of upholstery.

He let her fumble for a bit before quietly lowering himself onto the couch—long legs stretched, back against the armrest, and arms folded like he wasn’t waiting for her to just give in.

It didn’t take long.

She looked at him. Looked at the space between his legs. And crawled into it like she was born to.

One motion. One decision. Her body folded into his chest, legs tucked between his thighs, cheek pressing over his heartbeat like it had always been there. She draped her arms around his waist with the slumping sigh of a woman who had stopped pretending to be self-conscious about needing comfort.

And he was officially gone.

“Kohaku,” she whispered against his shirt. “You’re comfy.”

He chuckled softly, resting his chin against the top of her head, hands already stroking slow circles against her back. “So I’ve been told.”

He expected a joke. Something smart. Something with a smirk or a jab. Instead, she huffed. A small, petty sound. And then mumbled—so soft he nearly missed it—

“Probably your other girlfriends?”

He froze.

The words hit him like a surprise blade to the ribs—sharp, small, and not at all malicious. He didn’t think she even realized she said it. Not fully. It was one of those thoughts that slipped out on a whisper, unguarded. Quietly territorial.

She didn’t mean to say it. But she had.

He smiled against her hair. Pressed his lips to her crown. And whispered, honest as bone:

“No other girlfriends.”

She didn’t react. Not right away. But her body curled tighter. Arms squeezing around his ribs. And he said it again, softer this time, like it was a secret only meant for her and the air they breathed together.

“Just you.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. But her breath hitched. Her lashes fluttered. And her hand slowly slid beneath his shirt, palm pressing warm and firm against his stomach like she needed to make sure he was real.

He closed his eyes. Sank into her. Let the silence wrap around them like a blanket. Outside, Tokyo lights blinked faintly behind the curtain edges.

Inside, the couch creaked as she adjusted, one leg hooking over his thigh, her whole body curled into him like she wasn’t just resting, but staking a claim.

Kohaku ran a hand through her hair. Let the weight of her and the implication of what she’d said settle into his chest like gravity. This wasn’t just mochi and laughter anymore.

She’d said girlfriend.

And she’d made it sound like he was hers.

Good.

He planned on being exactly that.

She was fading fast.

One minute she was tucked into his chest on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV like she actually knew what was happening in the show—and the next?

Gone.

Soft sigh. Lashes fluttering closed. That telltale dead weight of her muscles relaxing fully into him like a cat finally giving up the ghost. Her body slumped in that unconscious sprawl of someone who had finally, finally stopped fighting sleep.

And he didn’t even pretend to resist.

He shifted carefully, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV with one hand while the other slid beneath her knees.

She mumbled something incoherent. Probably a protest. Didn’t matter. He gathered her up anyway.

Lifted her effortlessly from the couch, her cheek pressing against his bare collarbone as her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, no real awareness—just trust. Just warmth. Just the kind of instinctive seeking that made something primitive in him ache with how deep it went.

“Bedtime,” he murmured against her temple, already walking.

“‘M not tired,” she protested sleepily, and it was so unconvincing it made him smile.

“Sure you’re not,” he teased, nudging the bedroom door open with his foot. “You’re just unconscious with opinions.”

She made a sleepy sound that could’ve been a curse or a compliment—he wasn’t sure which—and he lowered her gently onto the bed.

The second her body hit the sheets, she rolled over and curled up like it was instinct. Pillow claimed. Blankets hugged. She sighed. Sank. Settled.

He didn’t even try to stop the affection that swept through him like a goddamn tidal wave.

He ducked into the bathroom quickly, grabbing his pajama bottoms from earlier, running a hand through his hair as he changed out of his jeans. Brushed his teeth. Swallowed a thousand thoughts about what this was and what they were becoming.

And when he stepped back into the room, tugging the drawstring on his pants and completely shirtless—

She was already curled into the blankets. Wearing his oversized T-shirt. And nothing else.

Nothing.

No pants. No shorts. Just bare thighs peeking from beneath soft cotton and the knowledge that underneath it was skin he’d memorized with his hands and the shape of her pressing close in every sleep-heavy moment they’d shared.

He stopped in the doorway. Swore under his breath. Took a second to run a hand over his mouth like it might wipe the sudden heat from his face.

Because fuck.

She was everything soft and sleepy and impossible. Draped in his shirt. Wearing it like it had always belonged to her. His scent clinging to her skin. Her legs half-tucked under the blankets, the hem riding high on her thighs as she shifted and murmured his name like a secret dream.

“Kohaku…”

He blinked.

“Yeah?” he answered instinctively, stepping into the room.

No response. She was asleep again. But his name still hung in the air, soft and weightless, like it had always belonged there. He climbed into bed slowly, careful not to jostle her, not because he didn’t want to wake her—but because some part of him revered this. Like it was sacred.

She sighed as he settled beside her.

Like her body had been waiting.

She didn’t even open her eyes—just shifted toward him automatically, one hand reaching, finding his chest, and planting itself there like she needed the rhythm of his heartbeat to fall deeper.

He stared at her. At the curve of her cheek, the soft part of her lips, the sleepy crease of her brow. And gods help him—he knew. He knew. She could ask him for anything and he’d do it. Just to keep this. Just to keep her.

His hand found her hair again, fingers stroking through it as she melted against him like the final piece of the day sliding into place.

Sleep well, he thought, lips ghosting over her forehead.

Because this was home now.

And he was never letting it go.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-One: Gone Girl, Moonlight Edition
Kohaku’s POV

He woke up with a start.

It wasn’t the usual kind—the slow stretch, the lazy inhale, the half-lidded glance at the woman tangled into his chest. No. This was different. This was wrong. Cold air licked across his skin, and the emptiness next to him was immediate. Striking. Wrong in a way that slammed into his nervous system like a bad omen.

His hand reached across the bed on instinct. Searching. Expecting. And found nothing.

No soft thigh. No loose hair. No familiar press of warmth tucked under his arm or leg hooked around his. The sheets were cool. Undisturbed. His side of the bed still held the shape of his body—hers didn’t. Not anymore.

Kohaku sat up, heart already beginning its traitorous climb.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. That deep, early-morning kind of silence that felt heavier than it should, like the world was waiting for something to break it. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to shake the weight in his chest before it could turn into something worse. Maybe she just woke up early. Maybe she couldn’t sleep. Maybe she was—

His brain didn’t finish that thought.

He got out of bed.

Bare feet hit cold floor. He didn’t bother with a shirt. Just pajama pants, a pulse that was picking up speed, and the gut-deep knowing that something felt off.

“Kagome?” he called softly into the dim hallway.

No answer.

He checked the bathroom first. Nothing. No steam, no light, no water running. Her toothbrush was still on the counter. His heart clenched a little tighter.

The living room was next—quiet, neat. The couch was untouched. No blanket, no pillow. No half-drunk water bottle or signs of life.

He moved faster now. Kitchen? Empty. Dining nook? Nothing. Even the front door was still locked.

Now the pulse was becoming a drumbeat.

She wouldn’t leave without saying something. Not her. She wasn’t the type to vanish into the night. Was she?

He grabbed his phone off the table. Checked it. No messages. No missed calls. No casual “I went for a walk” text. Just nothing.

His stomach twisted.

She had said she was staying.

She had gotten in that car. She had moved in. She had curled into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. She had unpacked in his room. Made jokes about mochi and grocery shopping and fake titles that were starting to feel a hell of a lot more real.

And now she was gone?

His chest tightened with something that sat right on the edge of panic.

He stormed through the house again, faster now, checking closets like an idiot—like maybe she’d been sucked into Narnia or was hiding with existential dread in the pantry. Every room that turned up empty just made his thoughts spiral harder.

Had she woken up with regret? Had he misread everything? Had she realized this—whatever this was—was too fast? Too insane?

Or maybe worse—maybe she hadn’t left voluntarily. Maybe something happened. Maybe she was out there somewhere and needed him and he was wasting time.

He shoved open the laundry room door, and that’s when he saw it. The small side door, cracked open just enough to let in a sliver of breeze.

He hadn’t noticed it before.

The pulse in his throat went from concerned to roaring.

He was moving before he realized it—barefoot, shirtless, nearly vibrating with the force of everything building in his chest. He pushed the door open fully, stepped outside, eyes scanning the yard with a frantic sort of precision—

And froze.

There.

In the middle of the grass. 

A blanket spread out across the lawn, soft folds catching in the faint wind. And on top of it? Her. 

Kagome.

Curled beneath another blanket, hair spilling across the pillow she’d dragged out with her, mouth slightly parted in sleep, the faint rise and fall of her chest slow and even. One hand was tucked under her cheek, the other curled beneath the edge of the fabric, fingers barely visible.

She was barefoot. Still wearing his shirt from earlier. Her legs tucked up, knees bent slightly, like she’d folded into the earth. Around her, the yard was still, painted silver in the light of the full moon that hung fat and glowing above them.

He stopped in the doorway, and his whole body…exhaled.

All of it. The panic. The spiral. The split-second fear that he had lost her before he ever got the chance to really have her.

Gone.

Melted into something softer. Something quieter.

Because she hadn’t left him.

She was just…out here. Sleeping. Under the stars. Like a woman who had run out of thoughts and emotions and needed the open air to hold them all for her.

He took a step forward. Then another.

Grass kissed his feet, cool and damp. The scent of dew and night and her shampoo met his nose as he crouched beside her. God, she looked peaceful. Soft, in that way she only got when the stress had finally slipped off her shoulders for just long enough to let her rest.

He should wake her. Should ask what the hell she was doing sleeping on the lawn like an exhausted fairytale.

But he didn’t. Not yet.Because he realized something, crouched there in the moonlight beside her.

She trusted him.

Deeply.

She trusted him enough to stay. To fall asleep in the same bed as him night after night. To move in with him. To put her fears aside and just try.

And if this? If sleeping outside on a blanket under the sky? If this was how she coped—how she made space for all the thoughts her brain couldn’t hold?

Then he would let her.

He sat down beside her carefully. Slowly. Rested his elbows on his knees, hands loose in his lap, and tilted his head up toward the moon.

It was huge. Quiet. Watching.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. Just breathed. And eventually, eventually, he let himself whisper—more to the night than to her:

“You scared the shit out of me, beautiful.”

She didn’t stir.

He let a small smile curl at the corner of his mouth.

“I thought you left.”

Still no movement. Her breath was slow, deep, steady.

“I was gonna raise hell.”

He reached over slowly, tugged the edge of her blanket higher up on her shoulder. His fingers brushed her skin. Warm. Real. Here.

And god, wasn’t that everything?

Wasn’t this everything?

He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Just a moment of contact. Reverent. Gentle. Silent.

Then, without a word, he laid down beside her. Right there on the grass. Under the stars. 

Next to the woman who had walked into his life like a hurricane disguised as a flight delay—and left him wondering how the fuck he had ever breathed before her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Two: Rain, Reverie, and Sleepy Promises
Kohaku’s POV

It started slowly—like most gentle disasters.

A subtle chill in the air first. A breeze that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. The kind that slithered through the grass and brushed across bare skin with a cool warning. Kohaku didn’t move at first, just glanced toward the sky, the faintest shift of clouds creeping over the moon.

Then the rain came.

Not in sheets, not dramatic or loud. Just… light. Soft. A scattered whisper of droplets that tapped gently against the trees and his shoulders, landing with a cool kiss on his skin and on the curve of her arm still sticking out from beneath the blanket.

He sighed.

Of course.

Of course the universe couldn’t let her sleep through the night uninterrupted, even if it looked like she needed to. Even if her breathing had finally hit that calm, slow rhythm only exhaustion and peace could achieve.

Still.

He looked at her—bare legs tucked beneath her, hair in tangles from tossing, lips parted slightly in a sleep deeper than he’d seen her manage in days. Her face was soft, relaxed. No creases. No tension.

And he couldn’t bear the thought of her waking up cold and wet.

So he stood up.

He didn’t grumble. Didn’t whine.

Just carefully scooped her into his arms—arms that had memorized the shape of her in sleep, that knew how to gather her without disturbing too much—and wrapped the slightly damp blanket around her body.

She stirred only slightly, a sleepy hum caught in her throat, but didn’t fight it. Her cheek pressed to his bare shoulder, and her breath stayed even.

The rain picked up as he carried her back inside.

Cool droplets slid down his spine, dampening his hair and making the thin fabric of his pajama pants stick against his legs, but he ignored it. The soft patter of rain on the rooftop followed him through the hallway as he paused at the laundry room, unwrapped the grass-and-dew-soaked blanket, and tossed it inside without ceremony. He made a mental note to wash it later.

Then it was back into the bedroom.

Warm. Familiar. Dry.

He pulled the covers back with one arm, adjusted the pillows, and lowered her gently into the bed like she was the most precious thing he’d ever carried—and honestly? She probably was.

She stirred again, barely awake, lids fluttering in the low light, and blinked at him with the soft confusion of someone caught between dreams and consciousness.

“Huh?” she mumbled, voice scratchy with sleep.

“It started to rain,” he murmured, sliding in beside her, pulling the comforter up and over them both. His hand found her hip. “Didn’t want you getting soaked.”

“Oh,” she breathed, already halfway gone again, but her eyes stayed cracked open for a beat longer.

He watched as she tried to blink herself into understanding.

“You carried me?” she asked, like the idea was too farfetched to be real.

He nodded against her hair, voice a low rumble against her scalp. “Yeah. Couldn’t let the moon princess drown on my watch.”

She gave the smallest sleepy giggle, almost a sigh. Then, her body curled toward his again—this time on instinct. Not just warmth. Not just comfort.

Familiarity.

Her place.

She was half asleep, but her lips still moved, whispering against his collarbone.

“Sleeping outside is calming,” she said, barely audible. “You should try it. Just once.”

His hand stroked gently along her back, listening, memorizing.

“Tomorrow,” she continued, more slurred now. “We can nap in the grass. Then have a date. And dinner.”

He smiled, lips pressing to the crown of her head.

“Yeah?” he asked softly, voice amused and reverent all at once. “Got it all planned out?”

“Mmhmm. And dessert,” she added, snuggling impossibly closer, a soft whimper caught in her throat like her body still didn’t want to let go of the idea.

He chuckled quietly, heart far too full for someone who’d just carried his half-drenched unofficial wife in from a midnight garden escape.

“Dessert, huh?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

He kept stroking her hair until her breath evened out again. Until her fingers stilled where they clung to his ribs. Until the weight of her against him anchored every corner of his soul back into place.

Because maybe it was a little wild.

Maybe they’d met by accident, crashed into each other through the chaos of a grounded flight and ended up wrapped in something that made no damn sense on paper.

But here she was. Planning dates and naps and dessert in her sleep. Still here.

She was asleep again. Peaceful. Anchored to his chest like she belonged there, like this wasn’t new and insane and stolen from a dream, but the dream. Like this was just their life—unfolding one breath, one sigh, one sleepy promise at a time.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand still tracing the line of her spine under the blanket. Gods, she was warm. Perfectly curled up. A little drool on his chest. Not that he was complaining.

In fact, if anyone dared to complain about the woman currently tangled around him like he was made of silk and promises, he’d remind them how lucky he was with a smirk and probably a punch to the jaw.

He was still smiling when he finally reached for his phone. One hand. Careful. Didn’t want to wake her. She’d earned this sleep. Unlock. Tap. Family Group Chat.

Kohaku:

Won’t make it to dinner today. Might be free for lunch, but not guaranteed. Will update later.

He hit send. Paused.

And right on cue—

Sango:

Go the fuck back to sleep with your woman. It’s 5:21AM. No one’s awake but you, horny brother.

He huffed a laugh, chest shaking under Kagome’s cheek, and glanced down to make sure she hadn’t stirred. Nothing. Just a deep breath, her hand twitching slightly as if to say don’t move, I’m sleeping here.

Kohaku:

She’s sleeping. I’m not.

Sango:

L.
I.
A.
R.

Then:

Sango:

You woke up at 4:30 to get this woman on a plane. You’ve been glued to each other like magnets since touchdown. If you don’t close your eyes and enjoy your perfect little cuddle nest, I will come over and personally lecture your ass.

Kohaku:

Sounds like a threat.
And no, we’re not magnets. We’re two people cohabitating and—

Sango:

OH MY GOD SHUT UP
I WILL LOSE IT
YOU MET ON A FLIGHT, SPENT TWO DAYS IN BED TOGETHER, AND NOW LIVE TOGETHER.
JUST SAY YOU’RE IN LOVE AND GO BACK TO SLEEP

Kohaku chuckled, low and deep, while Kagome—still asleep—mumbled something about “grass nap” and burrowed her nose into his collarbone.

His hand kept moving, lazily stroking her hair as he typed one-handed.

Kohaku:

Fine. Nap time.
But we’re not magnets.
…We’re velcro at best.

Sango:

I’m going to strangle you with a throw pillow.
Goodnight. Or morning. Whatever.
Don’t make plans until at least noon.

He didn’t reply to that one. Just turned the screen off, laid the phone on the nightstand, and kissed the crown of Kagome’s head again.

She murmured something—sleepy and unintelligible—but it ended in his name. A sigh. A whisper. “…Kohaku…”

And fuck if his chest didn’t feel too tight, like his heart was trying to claw its way out just to answer her.

He tightened his arm around her. They had the whole day. And the whole month. And tomorrow’s nap in the grass. And dinner. And dessert.

He could wait for all of it. Because right now? She was here. Wrapped around him. Still dreaming. And if he fell asleep with her heartbeat echoing against his chest? He figured it was the best way to start forever.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Three: Alarms, Anxiety, and the CEO Who Didn’t Flinch
Kagome’s POV

Her phone was ringing.

Not buzzing. Not gently pinging with a sweet, ignorable notification. No—ringing. Loud and shrill, slicing through the fog of sleep like a guillotine. She swatted blindly for it, knocking something off the nightstand before finally snatching it into her hand.

And then she saw the time.

9:03 AM.

She screamed.

Full-body panic. Limbs flailing. Adrenaline jackknifing through her as if the bed had caught fire beneath her. She slapped the screen to silence the call, which was from her coworker Yui, and stared in wide-eyed horror at the glowing numbers again.

Nine. Oh. Three.

She was supposed to be at the Tokyo office by six. She was supposed to be dressed, caffeinated, and pretending like the entire past week hadn’t happened. She had bosses. She had a director. She had a color-coded schedule that started three hours ago, and she had told everyone she’d be there on time like some naive little optimist.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“Kagome?” came Kohaku’s voice, low and slow and too full of sleep and not enough urgency.

She turned like a hurricane and found him still lounging on the bed, sheets half-draped over his hips, hair mussed, chest bare and gleaming with morning light like some kind of smug ad for irresponsibility. “Why didn’t you wake me?!”

He blinked at her. Sat up. Yawned.

“I didn’t know I was on alarm duty,” he said mildly, rubbing a hand down his face. “You looked peaceful. I thought we were recovering today.”

“Recovering?!” she shouted, already flinging the covers off and stumbling to the closet in nothing but the oversized shirt he’d given her. “Kohaku, I have a job! A real one! With people! And expectations!”

He just hummed, like she’d told him it was raining outside and not that she was about to have a full-blown cardiac event. “Call them. Tell them you’re coming in late.”

She turned back around, incredulous. “You don’t understand. I don’t get to just stroll in three hours late like some big boss who answers to no one.”

He raised one eyebrow, amused. “You mean like me?”

“Yes! Like you!” She stormed back across the room, grabbing her phone and digging through her suitcase for pants. “You’re a CEO! No one’s going to write you up! No one’s going to wonder if you’re dead in a ditch or if you’ve been poached by the competition!”

He stretched, spine crackling audibly, and slumped back into the pillows. “That’s fair. I guess I’m just lucky.”

She gave him a glare so sharp it could cut glass. “I hate how calm you are about this.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm.”

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Yui.

[9:06 AM] Where are you? The director’s asking. Should I cover for you or not??

Kagome typed a response with the fury of a thousand suns.

I’M ON MY WAY. OVERSLEPT. COVER ME FOR TEN MINUTES, I’LL BE THERE SOON.

She hit send, yanked on jeans, and nearly tripped over her own shoe in the process. “I’m going to be so fired.”

Kohaku propped himself up on his elbow, watching her like she was the main attraction in some surreal breakfast theater. “You’re not going to be fired.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do.” He stood up, finally, and walked over shirtless like that wasn’t illegal before 10 a.m. “You’re too competent. And terrifying. They’d have to be suicidal to let you go.”

“You’re not helping,” she muttered, stuffing her laptop into her tote like she could jam her shame inside with it.

He stepped behind her, gently brushed her hair away from her neck, and kissed the spot just beneath her ear. “I am helping,” he murmured. “You’re just too stressed to notice.”

Her heart stuttered.

Goddammit.

Why did he have to be good at that?

She turned to look at him, exasperated, flustered, still half-panicking. “This is not a healthy way to start a cohabitation, Kohaku.”

“I’ll have coffee waiting when you get home.”

She froze. Blinked at him. Then huffed. “…That helps a little.”

He grinned and leaned in to kiss her again—just once, light, stupidly soft, before stepping back. “Good. Now go impress them.”

She hesitated. Grabbed her bag. Then turned back once more. “If I get fired—”

“You’re moving in full time and I’m supporting you,” he said calmly. “No arguments.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Stared.

“Go, Kagome.”

She nodded.

And then she bolted out the door, praying Tokyo traffic would suddenly, miraculously part like the Red Sea for an unofficial wife on the brink of professional collapse.

She was flying. Not literally—gods, that would’ve solved her problems—but her legs were damn near sprinting across the sidewalk like the concrete was about to collapse behind her. Tokyo taxis were notoriously hit-or-miss, but today? The gods of punctuality and public transport smiled down upon her in pity and delivered a single, yellow-signed savior.

She threw herself into the backseat like a woman possessed.

“To Minato. Corporate side,” she wheezed, clutching her phone like it might hold her life force. The driver, used to 9 a.m. weekday disasters, nodded without flinching.

And for a few blessed seconds, Kagome allowed herself to breathe.

Until her hand patted the side of her tote. The tote that felt…lighter than it should’ve.

She froze.

Opened it.

And stared into the yawning black chasm of no laptop.

Her brain blanked. Her soul departed. Somewhere, a choir of demons began harmonizing “you’re screwed” in mocking falsetto.

“No,” she whispered. “No. No. No. No. No—”

She whipped out her phone with fingers that could barely type through the rising panic and shame. And because some part of her still had a tragic sense of humor, she texted him first.

[9:19 AM] Kagome: If I don’t come home it’s because I threw myself off the work building in shame. Late AND laptop-less. Pray for me.

The three little dots appeared immediately.

She stared at them like a countdown to her own scolding.

[9:20 AM] Kohaku: Not funny.
[9:20 AM] Kohaku: Don’t joke about that.
[9:20 AM] Kohaku: Also, Jesus. Seriously?

She winced. Sat back in the seat and silently contemplated which part of the sidewalk she’d melt into once she arrived.

Then her phone buzzed again.

[9:21 AM] Kohaku: I’m picking up my car from my family’s today. Drop me your office address. I’ll bring you lunch. And your laptop.
[9:21 AM] Kohaku: And your dignity, if they haven’t already torched it by then.

She choked out a laugh and covered her face.

God. What was this man? Some kind of stable adult emotional support wolf?

She sent the address, sighed, and followed it with:

[9:22 AM] Kagome: I hate how calm you are about my spiraling.

[9:22 AM] Kohaku: I love how dramatic you are about a single missed morning.
[9:22 AM] Kohaku: Unofficial wife or not, you’re not allowed to collapse into existential dread before noon.

She cracked a small, trembling smile. Rested her forehead against the cool glass of the taxi window.

Her coworkers were going to kill her. Her director might make her do supply closet cleanup duty until the new quarter. She hadn’t even brushed her hair properly.

But—

She wasn’t alone in it.

Kohaku was calm. Collected. There.

And for someone who’d spent most of her life sprinting from one fire to another on her own, that counted for more than she’d ever admit out loud.

She texted back with a resigned huff.

[9:23 AM] Kagome: Fine. Bring food. And extra praise. And maybe coffee.
[9:23 AM] Kagome: And my dignity. Please bring that too.

[9:24 AM] Kohaku: All of the above, beautiful. Hang in there. I got you.

And dammit, even in disaster, he still made her smile.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Weight of Names and Strategic Moves
Kohaku’s POV

She’d been a blur.

One moment her warm body was tangled with his under the sheets, all soft sighs and lazy limbs. The next? She was a storm. A shriek, a flurry of blankets, and the slam of the bathroom door. And by the time his feet had touched the damn floor, she was gone. Screamed at the clock, tripped through the hallway, and left with only her phone and a full-speed apology trailing behind her.

And Kohaku? Stood there shirtless, staring at the empty space she left like it had personally offended him.

“…The fuck just happened?”

Then he checked the time. 9:07 AM.

Okay, yeah. Her panic made a little more sense now.

Still. Gods.

She had run out like her entire career depended on it. Probably because it did. And that, more than anything else, was what stuck with him as he pulled on a clean shirt, grabbed his wallet, keys, and the laptop she desperately needed, and called a cab to his family home.

She was terrified. Of her job. Of being late. Of letting people down.

That was the difference, wasn’t it?

He had people to report to, technically. Boards. Partners. Sister. But there was no one who could fire him. Nobody who would chew him out for sleeping in—unless he missed Sunday dinner. And that was mostly just Sango with a wooden spoon and a moral superiority complex.

But Kagome? She had bosses. Supervisors. Directors with clipboards and performance reviews. And if he was being honest, he didn’t like the idea of her being at the mercy of a corporate structure that didn’t appreciate her. He didn’t like that she was so damn used to fixing everything herself. That she had spiraled, texted him a death joke, and then bolted like the building would explode if she didn’t arrive in time.

So, halfway through the taxi ride to his parents’ house, he did something he hadn’t done in months.

He pulled out his phone. Did some research on her company. Opened his business contacts. And searched.

Takeda Hiroshi.

CEO. Mid-level tech conglomerate. Pompous but competent. They’d crossed paths at a conference twice. Talked once. Something about him being interested in leveraging Kohaku’s logistics firm for digital expansion and joint infrastructure.

And he also happened to be Kagome’s boss.

Kohaku leaned back in the cab seat, tapped out the message, and let his instincts take over.

[9:42 AM] Kohaku

Takeda-san,

I hope this message finds you well. We met last quarter at the Tokyo innovation forum. There was brief discussion of a partnership with our logistics network and your mid-term digital expansion project.

I’d be interested in revisiting that dialogue, should your schedule permit.

On a more personal note—full transparency—one of your Tokyo division employees happens to be someone I’m engaged to.

If that causes any potential concerns or conflict of interest with corporate policy, I completely understand and am happy to delay partnership talks accordingly.

Hope to connect again soon.
Kohaku

There.

Neutral. Polished. Businessman polite with a sharp edge of intentionality.

Because if he was going to save her from a shit day and a spiral of existential dread? He was going to use her future title to do it.

Fiancée.

He didn’t even hesitate.

And when the message sent and the screen dimmed, he exhaled. Quiet. Still. Certain.

He wasn’t trying to control her life. He wasn’t going to bulldoze her agency.

But gods, if there was ever a time to make a strategic move? It was now.

If she was going to let herself panic over being late to a job where she might be chewed out for a sleep-deprived morning, then the least he could do was lay the groundwork for her future not to include groveling.

Because as far as he was concerned?

Anyone who got to employ Kagome Higurashi was damn lucky. And if that luck happened to come with a wolf in the background, smoothing out the edges?

So be it.

The phone buzzed before he even stepped out of the cab.

Takeda Hiroshi.

Efficient bastard.

Kohaku tilted his head, thumbed the screen, and let his eyes scan the response as he moved up the drive toward his family’s home—unlocking the door without breaking stride.

[9:55 AM] Takeda Hiroshi
Kohaku-san,

Wonderful to hear from you! I’ve reviewed your previous proposal and have been hoping for a chance to reconnect.

I’m available this morning before lunch if you have time. Flexible between 10:45 and noon. We can meet at the central Tokyo office or somewhere nearby.

And congratulations! May I ask for the name? I’m sure they are someone incredible if they’ve caught your attention.

Kohaku huffed a laugh as he dropped her laptop bag near the entry bench, kicked off his shoes, and headed for the kitchen. The house was quiet. Blessedly so. Sango was likely at the clinic, his parents out with friends or errands, and the family chat had finally shut the hell up. For now.

He responded with one hand while pouring a glass of water.

[9:58 AM] Kohaku
Her name is Kagome Higurashi.

And yes. She’s remarkable. I’m actually dropping off her work laptop to her office in the next hour—she had a rough morning and left it behind. Late due to an alarm mishap and a logistical error on my part.

If your team gives her any grief about it, I’ll consider it a personal affront.

I’ll swing by the Tokyo office before 11. Let’s talk partnership.

He hit send, dropped his phone on the counter, and exhaled.

There. That was done.

He had claimed her. Professionally. Politely. With the exact amount of weight a man in his position was allowed to throw.

No panic. No theatrics. Just names, schedules, and quiet declaration.

Kagome Higurashi. His unofficial wife, curled in blankets this morning like the world was on fire. The woman who slept outside under the moon with a blanket and the type of sigh that sounded like exhaustion had worn itself out.

And he?

He had just written her name into the professional ledger of his life.

It wasn’t a power play. Not really. He didn’t need to impress her. He just wanted her protected. Covered from all angles. If that meant putting his name beside hers for a few key people to take note?

Good.

If that meant she didn’t come home feeling like she’d failed?

Even better.

Kohaku ran a hand through his hair, grabbed the laptop bag, and glanced at the time. He had 45 minutes to get across town and look completely unbothered while potentially altering the next few years of his life.

Easy.

He sent Kagome a text on the way out the door, casual like the world wasn’t shifting.

[10:03 AM] Kohaku
Got your laptop. On my way.

Try not to jump from the building in shame. I’ll be there before you hit the ledge.

And gods help any of her coworkers who dared say anything sideways.

Because unofficial husband or not—he was all in.

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: Lobby Lies and Corporate Kisses
Kohaku’s POV

The lobby was modern glass and polished stone. Subtle incense wafted from sleek diffusers near the security gate, and the hum of midmorning Tokyo work rhythm carried from passing suits and clipped heels on tile.

Kohaku stepped in like he belonged there—because, well, he did. Not to this building, but to any building. Any room. Any boardroom. It was in the set of his shoulders, the slow cadence of his steps, the steel confidence of someone who didn’t need approval to enter.

The woman at the front desk blinked up at him.

“Name?”

“Kohaku. I have an 11 o’clock with Takeda Hiroshi.”

She typed, her nails clacking, then gave a small nod. “Of course, Kohaku-san. We have you listed. Would you like a visitor badge?”

He smiled. “I’d love one. And—if it’s not too much trouble—could I have one of your team page an employee for me before my meeting? Just to deliver something.”

She tilted her head. “Name?”

“Higurashi Kagome.”

Something flickered across her expression. Recognition? Curiosity? She covered it well and nodded.

“One moment.” She picked up a line, spoke quietly. “Higurashi-san? Yes, there’s a delivery at the front for you.”

Perfect. He adjusted the laptop bag in his hand, straightened the lapel of his jacket, and turned toward the elevator lobby like he wasn’t tracking every footstep, every possible outcome.

The glass doors hissed open a minute later.

And gods.

There she was.

Hair slightly windblown, cheeks flushed from adrenaline and rushing, blouse tucked in unevenly like she’d barely pulled herself together. And still? Beautiful.

Kagome spotted him, confused but cautious, slowing her steps as she stepped into the marble entry of the lobby.

“Kohaku?”

He smiled. “Ah—there you are.”

He crossed to her, effortlessly slipping into the role he had set in motion. His voice was warm, relaxed, just loud enough for the front desk to hear.

“Beautiful, I’m so sorry for taking up all your time this morning. I didn’t realize I’d kept your laptop hostage.”

Her brows shot up in quiet alarm, but she recovered quickly as he leaned in—pressing a slow kiss to her cheek. No, not cheek. Closer. The side of her mouth. She blinked, stunned. And in that moment, lips brushing her skin, he murmured into her ear:

“I have a meeting with your boss. I may have mentioned you’re my fiancée. Dropped the ‘unofficial’ part. Just…go with it.”

He leaned back, watching her face.

A blink. A soft gasp. A short, sharp stare that screamed what the hell did you just do?

But then?

She smoothed her expression, gave him a demure smile, and held out her hand for the laptop like she was used to playing the sweet, spoiled wife of a dangerously overinvolved businessman.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she said through her teeth, then turned to the front desk with a little wave. “Thank you so much for letting me know.”

And just like that—she pivoted, hips swinging like confidence incarnate, laptop hugged to her chest, walking back through the glass doors with a grace he hadn’t seen before.

He exhaled. Holy hell. She played along. Gods, he might actually be in love with this woman.

The receptionist looked at him with a sly smile as she handed him his badge.

“Congratulations, Kohaku-san.”

He grinned. “Thank you.” 

And meant it.

The elevator doors slid shut with a quiet whisper and Kohaku adjusted the collar of his jacket, rolled his shoulders once, and stared at his reflection in the gleaming steel walls.

The badge clipped to his chest read Visitor – Kohaku in plain black font. Temporary. Disposable.

But his presence here?

Intentional as hell.

The doors opened on the executive floor, and a suited assistant greeted him with a practiced bow and smile.

“Kohaku-san, Takeda-sama is expecting you.”

Kohaku nodded and followed her past floor-to-ceiling windows, glass-walled meeting rooms, and a sprawling koi pond installation tucked into a meditation alcove. Corporate zen, Tokyo edition.

Takeda Hiroshi stood as he entered the room—tall, lean, impeccably dressed in navy with silver cufflinks and a face that had built an empire off charm and strategy.

“Kohaku-san,” he greeted, extending a hand. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. But it’s a pleasure. And—congratulations.”

Kohaku gave a short laugh, shaking the man’s hand firmly. “Thank you. Still new. Very new.”

Takeda gestured to the seat across from him. “Please. Sit.”

They settled into the plush leather chairs. The skyline view framed them like something out of a political thriller.

Takeda wasted no time. “Your companies are top of our integration wishlist this quarter. If we could secure a regional cross-over strategy before Q4, I think we’d both benefit.”

Kohaku nodded slowly, accepting the document the assistant brought over.

“Let’s talk numbers soon. But I figured… with recent developments in my personal life, it wouldn’t hurt to reintroduce myself.”

Takeda smiled broadly, sipping his tea. “Well, your timing is excellent.”

A pause. Then—

“And Kagome-san? How is the engagement going?”

Kohaku smiled with practiced ease. Not too wide. Just enough.

“You know how it is,” he said, waving a hand lightly. “She’s all about work. Doesn’t wear the ring at the office—for professionalism, you know.”

Takeda’s eyes widened, scandalized.

“Oh no,” he said quickly. “Please—she’s more than welcome to wear it here. We encourage joy. Especially when it comes in the form of young talent and future family. I hope she knows that.”

Kohaku bit back a grin. Oh, she’d love that.

Takeda went on, voice softer now. “To be honest, I’ve often thought we’ve over-relied on Kagome-san. She tackles far too much without asking for help. Perhaps with the new engagement, we should start planning a shift. Delegate more. Allow her to breathe.”

Kohaku leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. “That’s what I’ve been thinking too. She’s capable. But she shouldn’t have to run herself into the ground.”

Takeda sighed. “Exactly. I’ll have HR and scheduling look at redistributing some of her workload. Maybe she can start mentoring one of the incoming recruits.”

Kohaku nodded. “She’d be good at that.”

Takeda chuckled. “And—who knows. If this partnership goes through, we may be working closely with both of you. An official pairing in the office and outside it.”

Kohaku smirked. “We do come as a package deal.”

He wasn’t sure what gods were looking down on him with favor today, but he’d take it.

Fiancée?
Laptop delivery?
Suddenly restructured workload?

If she didn’t kiss him tonight, he might start wearing the engagement ring himself.

Chapter Text

Chapter 36: The Ring, the Rumor, and the (Future) Reality
Kohaku’s POV

The moment the meeting hit a lull and Takeda excused himself for a quick call, Kohaku checked his phone. And gods, he was rewarded instantly.

[Kagome💤🔥]

HOW does the entire floor already know?
I’m being congratulated.
There are literal whispers in the break room.
One girl just asked to see the ring I DON’T HAVE.
I’m being shunned for not wearing it.
Are you TRYING to get me exiled from the employee birthday cake club??

He nearly choked on his own breath, pressing a knuckle to his mouth to hold back the laugh that threatened to betray his very professional exterior.

[Kohaku]

I mean, technically, you’re just avoiding a dress code violation.
Accessories must be worn with pride or not at all.
Also, I feel like the cake club should be mandatory by marriage rights.

A pause. Three dots. Then:

[Kagome💤🔥]

You are not taking this seriously.
I don’t even know your last name.
This is fraud. You’ve tricked an innocent woman into a corporate-level scandal.

And that? Oh, that earned a smirk he didn’t even try to hide.

[Kohaku]

Reminder: Taijiya.
First name Kohaku. Last name Taijiya.
Lineage: annoying older sister.
Skills: persuasion, lifting groceries, cuddling on demand.
Current title: unofficial husband, possible fiancé, real-time miracle worker.

He could practically feel her glare through the screen.

But gods, she hadn’t stopped texting.

And she hadn’t run.

Not even after the accidental PR rollout.

The door clicked, and Takeda returned with a fresh coffee and a smile still lingering from whatever call he’d just taken. The man was good—seasoned in business and full of political grace. Kohaku returned to the conversation with fluid ease, watching slide after slide flash on the screen again.

To his surprise? It was a damn solid contract.

Good rates. Manageable scope. Optional renewals on a six- or twelve-month cycle.

A part of him relaxed. This was doable. Sustainable. Something he could take on without sacrificing his own companies—and without being away from Kagome. If they saw this thing through… if they made it to the next phase of whatever the hell they were building between couch naps and grocery dates?

This deal would put them on the same page professionally too.

And just for good measure?

Kohaku glanced at the screen, then leaned back casually, arms crossing as if the thought just struck him.

“I’m really glad Kagome told me to reach out to you,” he said with a calm shrug. “Said it’d be worth considering. She’s sharp like that.”

Takeda looked visibly pleased. “Ah, she’s always been dependable. Quiet type, but damn good at what she does. I’ll have to thank her. Loyal employee and loyal wife—well, fiancée—for now.”

Kohaku chuckled, eyes sharp but relaxed.

“Not for long.”

He meant it. Every fucking word.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Strategic Deployment, Domestic Edition
Kohaku’s POV

The handshake was firm. The contracts were solid. The meeting had gone smoother than anything he could’ve hoped for. And Takeda? Beaming. Corporate bliss in pressed slacks.

Kohaku waited until the final sign-off, until the “looking forward to it”s and “we’ll be in touch soon”s were exchanged. Then—smooth, unassuming—he tilted his head as if an afterthought drifted in on a breeze.

“Quick question before I head out,” he said, tucking his phone into his pocket like he didn’t already have a drafted message ready to go. “I was thinking of bringing Kagome to meet my family this week. Figured she could use the break. Would she happen to have any leave days left?”

He delivered it with the same tone someone might use to ask for an extra packet of sugar. Casual. Polite. But calculated as hell.

Takeda barely blinked. “Of course. She has more than enough banked. I’ll have her immediate lead mark the time off.” A pause, then a grin. “If she needs more than a week, just have her let me know.”

More than a week.

Gods, he’d played this game well.

Kohaku gave him a grateful nod. “I appreciate that. I’ll make sure she has her laptop if anything’s urgent, but I’ll keep her distracted.”

Takeda chuckled. “Somehow, I believe that.”

And with that, Kohaku made his exit. Texted the front desk. Asked if Kagome was still signed in. She was.

He headed down, not bothering to hide the little smile tugging at his lips. She was going to flip. He couldn’t wait.

The elevator dinged.

She was near the security gates, phone in one hand, glaring at something—or someone—probably office gossip trails.

He approached, calm as you please.

“You ready?” he asked, and gods, he enjoyed the way her shoulders relaxed when she saw him.

“From being fake engaged to my boss’s new favorite?” she muttered.

He raised a brow. “Correction—soon-to-be not-fake fiancée. With authorized leave time for the week. You’re welcome.”

She froze.

“Excuse me?”

He took her laptop from her, and put it in her tote. Handed it over. “One week off. Paid. Possibly more if we ask nicely. And yes, I may have told him we were visiting my family.”

“You what—”

“Calm down. I asked if you had the time first.” He smirked. “The fact that it was approved means someone up there wants to meet their future daughter-in-law.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

“You’re terrifying,” she whispered.

“And yet,” he replied, holding the door open for her, “you keep crawling back into bed with me.”

She stomped ahead of him in a flustered blur of scandal and disbelief.

And gods, he couldn’t wait to introduce her to the chaos that was the Taijiya household. This? This was going to be fun.

The ride home was quiet—at least, at first.

Kagome sat with her legs crossed, laptop perched on her lap, glaring holes into it like it had personally betrayed her. Her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed, and every few seconds she’d open her mouth—then shut it again. She was gearing up. Kohaku knew the signs.

So he gave her the summary himself. Calm. Cool. As if the world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

“You’ve got a week of paid leave. Maybe more if you ask. Takeda thinks you’re a loyal wife and a business genius. Says you tackle too much. Suggested delegating some duties.”

She let out a slow, horrified breath, not looking up. “Kohaku.”

“And,” he continued, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel with maddening ease, “he’s very thankful you encouraged me to reach out. You’ve apparently secured the partnership.”

“Kohaku.”

“And,” he added with a barely-restrained grin, “he congratulated me on the engagement. Again.”

At that, she snapped her laptop shut so hard he was surprised it didn’t crack.

“We cannot lie our way through an engagement,” she hissed, finally turning her wide, panicked eyes on him. “You cannot just…speak that into reality and assume no one’s going to ask questions or look for a fucking ring.”

He gave a slow blink. “I didn’t lie.”

“You—”

“I said I was lucky. I said I was thankful. I didn’t even give him a timeline. He assumed we were engaged, and I didn’t correct him.”

“You didn’t correct him,” she repeated, disbelieving.

“And then I may have mentioned you don’t wear the ring to work out of professionalism.”

Her entire body turned to face him in the passenger seat. “You are deranged.”

“And yet?” He gave her a cocky side glance. “Still in the car with me.”

“Because I need a ride, not because I’ve endorsed this marriage plot!”

He hummed. “That’s not what Takeda thinks.”

“Oh my god.”

She leaned back against the headrest, threw a hand over her face, and let out a long, guttural groan. But she didn’t bolt. She didn’t scream. She didn’t pull out her phone and start damage control.

And that? That gave him all the permission he needed.

“We can fake it,” he said gently. “For now.”

She peeked out from under her hand. “Kohaku—”

“We fake it,” he said again, softer this time, “until it’s not fake anymore.”

The car filled with silence.

Not the uncomfortable kind, not the “get me out of here” kind. But the stillness of possibility. Of walls shaking, crumbling quietly.

She lowered her hand. Stared ahead. “You say that like you’re so sure.”

He smirked. “I am.”

She bit her lip. “You don’t even know what my favorite color is.”

“I’ll learn it.”

“You don’t know what I’m like when I’m angry.”

“Terrifying,” he answered without hesitation.

She gave a single huff of reluctant amusement. “You don’t know what I’m like when I’m really in love.”

He turned into the driveway of the house they were sharing, eased the car into park, and looked at her.

“That,” he said slowly, “is exactly what I want to find out.”

And when she didn’t answer?

He just leaned over, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “One day at a time, beautiful.”

Because if she didn’t bolt now—after all this—then gods help him, she might be his already.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Eight: House of Cards (and Hearts)
Kohaku’s POV

They stepped into the house—borrowed, rented, temporary in all the ways that mattered to the world.

But for him?

Home.

She kicked off her shoes like she’d lived there for years, dropped her bag by the couch, and flopped down with a groan that said she’d aged five years in one afternoon.

Kohaku locked the door behind them. Stood there a moment. Watching her. Not the usual, casual kind of watching he’d been doing the last few days. No. This was different.

This was I’m-in-it watching.

This was I-think-I’m-screwed watching.

Because now they had a list. A very real, very precarious list of things they’d both let happen. Lies turned truths. Accidental stories now concrete in the minds of people who mattered.

“Well,” Kagome said flatly, hand over her eyes as she lay back on the couch, “we’re in too deep.”

He hummed. Walked toward the kitchen. “Define ‘too deep.’”

“We faked an engagement,” she shouted after him. “You’re now in a contract with my boss. He congratulated you. Called me a wife. And we’re living together.”

“Ah. So Tuesday,” he muttered, opening the fridge.

She made a noise between a laugh and a groan.

He returned with two bottled teas, handed her one, and sat at the edge of the coffee table to face her fully.

“Okay,” he said, calm, composed. “Let’s run through this.”

“Through what?”

“Our list of strategic lies we now have to convert into non-lies.”

She cracked the bottle open and glared at him while drinking. “Oh, please. Enlighten me, Mr. Master Manipulator.”

“One: We’re engaged.”

She made a strangled noise.

“Two: You told me to reach out to Takeda, which means you believe in this partnership. If he ever checks. So we have to actually agree the partnership’s smart.”

She blinked.

“Three: My family knows I’m living with someone, and Sango definitely knows it’s you.”

She sat bolt upright. “What?!”

Kohaku ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Yeah…so. Remember that grocery store trip?”

Her jaw dropped.

He gestured. “She bumped into you. Complimented your hoodie? My hoodie?”

Kagome slapped both hands over her face. “No. No, no, no—”

“She didn’t say anything. Just…took a picture. Sent it to the group chat.”

“I hate it here.”

“Four,” he continued smoothly, “we have dinner with my family this weekend.”

Her face shot toward him like he’d lit a firework in her lap. “What?”

“Well,” he said calmly, sipping his tea, “Takeda gave you the week off. I figured we use it wisely.”

She stared at him. “This is spiraling.”

He leaned in. “It’s stabilizing.”

“Spiraling.”

“Settling,” he countered.

“I don’t even own a ring!” she wailed.

“Easy fix.”

“Kohaku—!”

“I’ll buy one. Nothing wild. Just enough to keep the lie alive.”

She dragged her hands down her face like she could physically erase the panic. “You say that like proposing to me to keep your story straight is normal.”

He tilted his head. “I say that like I’m very comfortable turning this story into the truth.”

Silence. Long. Deep. Thick with tension. She stared at him like he’d just confessed he was an alien prince with a secret kingdom. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—because—” She flailed her arms. “I don’t even know what kind of toothpaste you use!”

“Mint.”

“Kohaku—!”

He smiled and took another sip. “I know you like mochi for dinner. I know you sleep better when I run my hands through your hair. I know you panic when you’re late but still do your job like your life depends on it. And I know you’d rather run barefoot through traffic than ask someone for help.”

She stared.

“I also know,” he added softly, “that I’m falling for you. And that if we fake this for another week, I’m not going to want to unfake it.”

She blinked. A few times. Then pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead like she was trying to keep her soul from escaping.

“…you’re a menace,” she whispered.

“Unofficial menace,” he corrected.

And when she didn’t slap him? He reached out, stole a sip of her tea, and grinned. This was the part where the lies stopped feeling like lies. And started feeling like the beginning of everything.

She huffed, dragging a pillow over her face like it might shield her from reality. “Kohaku, this isn’t how someone gets engaged.”

He shrugged from the other end of the couch, one ankle crossed over the other, tea bottle halfway to his lips. “Maybe not for everyone.”

“Kohaku,” she said again, dragging out the vowels like it was a warning and a prayer. “People meet through friends. They go on dates. They talk about their futures. They have proposals. They don’t accidentally get engaged in a lie while their pretend-fiancé negotiates company mergers with their boss.”

He raised both brows, calmly amused. “And yet, here we are. Ice cream-for-dinner, accidental domesticity, and halfway to registering a joint address. Honestly? I’ve heard worse.”

Her jaw dropped again. “You’re not taking this seriously!”

“Oh, I am,” he said, setting down his drink. “I just don’t have an issue with how we met. The airport chaos. The hotel. The mochi dinners. You drooling on me in your sleep.”

“I do not drool!”

“You sleep-nibble,” he said with a grin. “There’s a difference. It’s endearing.”

She made a strangled noise, then pointed at him. “This is not a rom-com!”

“Says the woman who got into my Uber at the airport and now lives in my AirBnB,” he deadpanned. “You tell me what genre we’re in.”

She looked to the ceiling like she was appealing to higher powers. “I’m supposed to meet your family. What am I supposed to do, just lie to them? Pretend I’m your fiancée and hope I don’t slip up?”

This time, he dropped the teasing. Sat up straighter. Voice level and warm.

“No,” he said softly. “You don’t have to lie to them. And I would never ask you to.”

She blinked, lips parting in surprise. “Then…what am I supposed to do?”

He gave her a small, honest smile. “Just be you.”

Her brows pulled together. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, shifting closer, resting his arms on his knees, “they already know. Not everything. But… the highlights, if you will.”

Kagome stared. “They know?”

He nodded. “Since the plane.”

She looked horrified. “What do they know?”

He smirked, amused. “That I got stranded. That I met a woman. That she took over my brain and my hotel bed and possibly my soul. That we may have accidentally trauma-bonded into romance. And that I haven’t looked back since.”

“Kohaku—!”

He held up a hand. “Relax. They don’t know about the shirtless hotel cuddling or the mochi as a food group. Just…that you exist. That it’s fast. That I’m not running. That I’m falling.”

She covered her mouth, eyes wide. “Your family knows everything.”

“They know enough,” he corrected. “Sango was the first. Then my mom. Then the group chat. But they’re not judging. They’re just…watching. Waiting.”

“For what?”

He smiled.

“For me to tell them it’s real. That you’re it.”

The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just full. Thick with the weight of everything unspoken, unsorted, but somehow…safe.

Kagome exhaled, shaky. “And what if I mess it all up?”

“You can’t,” he said gently. “They’ve seen me fuck up worse. And besides—”

He leaned in. Reached for her hand.

“—they already like you. You just don’t know it yet.”

She stared down at their hands. Tangled. Real.

Not a lie in sight. And for the first time, he saw something flicker in her eyes that wasn’t fear. It was the first quiet flash of possibility.

Of hope.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Sundress Diplomacy and Dinner with the Wolves
Kohaku’s POV

Kohaku Taijiya was not, by any standard or interpretation, a man who panicked.

He had led multimillion-yen contracts with zero sleep and a hangover. He had defused boardroom chaos while someone literally screamed in the hallway about a missing shipment. He had once told an investor to either lower their voice or raise their intelligence, and he meant it.

But none of that prepared him for this.

Family dinner.

With Kagome.

The woman who had taken over his flight, his hotel bed, his life, and now, apparently, his last name—unofficially.

He stood in front of the mirror, buttoning up a charcoal shirt that felt like both armor and an invitation. Black slacks. Rolled sleeves. Cologne, light. Hair, intentionally messy.

Casual sophistication. Polished chaos. The look of a man who was about to take a woman he may or may not be in love with to meet his actual, feral family.

And gods help him, she wasn’t even nervous.

Yet.

“Kagome?” he called out, already loosening his collar like the air was too tight.

“Almost ready!” she sang from the other room.

He paced once. Then again. Paused by the kitchen counter. Picked up his phone. Scrolled through the group chat:

Sango: You better not be late.
Miroku: I bought wine. Not for you. For her. She’ll need it.
Mom: So excited to meet her, sweetheart! I made her favorite!
Dad: …you don’t know her favorite, Hana.
Mom: Women love simmered vegetables.
Sango: You’re going to traumatize her, Mom.

Kohaku muted the thread and inhaled slowly. He could survive this. They could survive this.

And then she stepped out of the bedroom. And his brain promptly shut the hell down.

A sundress.

Of course it was a sundress. Soft, flowy, floral, and completely lethal. Sleeveless with a square neckline that showed off just enough to short-circuit his higher functions. Her hair was down, lips glossed, and she gave him the most innocent smile in the known universe.

“Too much?” she asked, holding her hands together.

Kohaku stared.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

She blinked. “The dress?”

He stepped forward like he was hypnotized, his hands finding her waist before his mouth caught up. “We are so close to canceling dinner.”

She flushed. “What?”

“This is unfair,” he muttered, eyes dragging down her silhouette. “How the hell am I supposed to introduce you to my family when all I can think about is how fast I can get you out of that thing after?”

Her breath hitched.

He leaned in, voice low, gravel-rich. “You wore that on purpose.”

“I didn’t know it would have that effect,” she said too innocently.

He kissed her neck. “Liar.”

She whimpered. Whimpered.

But still didn’t back away. And gods, he really was about to cancel. Family be damned. His sanity had needs.

But then her hands pressed lightly to his chest. “Kohaku. Dinner.”

He groaned like a man on death row. “This dress is a declaration of war.”

“It’s floral.”

“It’s a weapon.”

She grinned and pecked his cheek. “You’ll live.”

He wasn’t so sure. But he stepped back, adjusted his collar, grabbed the keys, and muttered to himself the whole way out the door.

They had twenty minutes before arrival. Twenty minutes before he handed her over to the chaos that was his entire bloodline.

And if he was lucky? Maybe only half of them would interrogate her. The other half would just offer lifelong contracts and ask for wedding dates.

No big deal. He glanced over at her as she slipped into the passenger seat, legs crossing, smile soft.

Yeah.

Totally worth the panic.

The drive should’ve been ten minutes.

Twelve, max, with traffic.

But for Kohaku, it felt like he’d crossed entire galaxies on that short stretch of Tokyo streets—because every second behind the wheel, beside her, was an emotional death spiral.

She was humming softly. Hair tucked behind one ear. One leg crossed over the other, sundress riding up just enough to make his hands itch on the steering wheel. Her head tilted slightly toward the window like she was just casually existing—completely unaware that he was currently trying to figure out the appropriate timeline to both propose to her and bend her over the nearest stable surface.

Not necessarily in that order.

His knuckles flexed.

She glanced over. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” he lied smoothly.

And then immediately stared at the road like it had secrets, because gods, he needed something else to look at before his heart climbed out of his mouth.

He cleared his throat. “You nervous?”

She shrugged. “A little. I don’t want to make things weird with your family.”

He risked a glance. “Kagome. My family is weird. You just showing up makes you the most normal person at the table.”

She smiled softly. “Still. Want to make a good impression.”

He muttered under his breath, “Already made one.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

He gripped the wheel tighter.

Because here was the thing: Kohaku could read contracts in seconds. Predict market shifts before they happened. Spot a lie from ten meters away.

But Kagome Higurashi? She was a walking paradox. He knew she liked him—wanted him, definitely. Her sleep-self was handsy as hell and her waking-self hadn’t exactly resisted domesticity. She’d gotten in the Uber. Moved into the AirBnB. Agreed to dinner with his family.

But did she feel what he felt?

The question burned in the back of his throat.

Because he was gone.

Falling so hard it made his chest ache. She was his first thought in the morning, last thought at night. Her laugh rearranged his internal organs. Her sleepy sighs made him feel domesticated. Not trapped. Not caged. Home.

And that was terrifying.

Because what if she wasn’t there yet?

What if this was just… a wild few days for her? A story she’d tell in ten years about the time she accidentally played wife for a month and then went back to reality?

What if he wanted forever, and she only wanted fun?

He pulled into the driveway.

The house loomed familiar—sloped roof, white siding, porch light already on. The laughter was audible from inside, even with the windows up.

He killed the engine. Took a breath.

She turned to him, eyes searching.

“You sure they won’t think this is crazy?”

He looked at her.

Soft curls. Bare shoulders. Open eyes. A quiet sort of strength that made him want to build cities just to hand her the keys.

He swallowed.

“I hope they think it’s crazy,” he said honestly. “Because it is. But… it’s the kind of crazy that feels like I’ve waited my whole damn life for it.”

Her breath caught.

And he didn’t wait for a response.

Because if he did, he’d lose his nerve—and gods, he needed to hold onto the last thread of dignity he had left before walking into that chaos.

So he climbed out, grabbed the dessert they’d brought, came around to open her door like a damn gentleman, and offered her his hand.

She took it.

And as they walked up the path together—her in that sundress, him in a light panic—he did what any deeply smitten man would do in his position:

He silently rehearsed for the exact phrasing of a marriage proposal that wouldn’t make her bolt. Just in case dinner went really, really well and he was feeling bold by the end of this 30 day adventure. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty: Lions’ Den
Kohaku’s POV

Kohaku loved his family.

He would die for them. Kill for them. Defend them against anyone, anything, anywhere.

But he also knew exactly what they were capable of when they got curious. And right now, walking up the familiar front steps of his childhood home with Kagome’s hand in his, he could feel that curiosity radiating through the damn front door. Like a predator sensing blood in the water.

This woman—this unofficial wife of his—had been through enough in the past few days. He had worked his ass off to get her to stay. He had spun lies so clean they were practically polished truths, bent his own schedule, set up a month-long arrangement to keep her close, and risked her bolting at least four different times. He wasn’t about to let his family steamroll her into retreating.

Not on his watch.

The second the door opened, he was met with a familiar, far-too-pleased grin.

Sango.

Of course.

Before he could even say hello, she leaned on the doorframe, eyes flicking between them like she’d just solved the mystery of the century. “Before I let you in,” she said sweetly—too sweetly—“I’m sorry for pretending to be a stranger in the grocery store.”

Kagome’s brows lifted in confusion.

Sango went on, clearly savoring her moment. “Just saw my brother and a pretty girl and was curious.” And then, without missing a beat, she turned to Kagome with a bright, self-satisfied smile. “I’m Sango. His sister.”

Kohaku’s jaw tightened.

It wasn’t the introduction itself—it was the tone. That layered, teasing inflection that only siblings could pull off. Sango wasn’t being cruel, but she wasn’t being delicate either. And while Kohaku had grown up thriving in this kind of energy, Kagome didn’t have the same armor.

He held his sister’s gaze.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Years of sibling shorthand made the warning clear: Don’t push. Don’t scare her. Don’t ruin this for me.

Sango’s eyes glinted with amusement—because of course she saw it—but to her credit, she stepped aside, motioning them in.

Kohaku stepped over the threshold first, subtly guiding Kagome with a hand at her lower back. He could feel her tense, just a fraction, as the sounds of laughter and conversation swelled from the dining room.

His mind was already working.

Control the flow. Control the pace. No rapid-fire questions. No interrogation. Keep Kagome beside him the whole night, answer for her if she’s cornered, redirect when necessary. He’d been negotiating hostile boardrooms since he was eighteen—he could damn well navigate his own family without casualties.

He leaned slightly toward her as they walked in, voice pitched low, steady. “Stay close to me. If they overwhelm you, just give me a look. I’ll handle it.”

She glanced up at him, something like relief flickering in her eyes, and nodded.

Good.

He might be bringing her into the lions’ den tonight, but she wasn’t going in alone. And gods help anyone—blood or not—who thought they could scare her off.

Because Kohaku had fought hard to get her here.
And he wasn’t losing her to a single dinner.

Miroku spotted her before Kohaku could even guide her toward the dining room.

The man had that gleam in his eye—the one that meant he’d smelled gossip from three rooms away and was already sharpening his questions like knives. He moved fast, cutting through the entry hall with the casual confidence of someone who considered every guest his personal entertainment.

“Kagome, right?” Miroku grinned, sliding in like a conversational thief. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Kohaku’s hand tightened just slightly at the small of her back. His silent warning to Miroku was probably visible from space. But Miroku either didn’t see it—or ignored it entirely.

“You know,” Miroku went on, “it’s rare to meet a woman who can—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Sango appeared from nowhere, stepping in between Miroku and Kagome with the same grace she’d use to intercept a runaway toddler. “Husband,” she said, smiling but loaded with intent, “don’t you have literally anything else to do right now?”

Miroku blinked. “I was just—”

“No,” she cut him off sweetly. “You were about to interrogate my brother’s—” She stopped herself just enough to keep it from becoming a loaded statement. “—guest. And right now, we are being polite.”

Kohaku didn’t miss the way she said guest, neutral but protective. She was still his sister—still nosy as hell—but she’d clocked the situation. She might tease him later, but in this moment, she was actually helping keep the hounds at bay.

Miroku looked between them, clearly disappointed at having his fun cut short, but Sango held her ground. “Kitchen,” she said firmly, jerking her head toward the smell of food. “Go.”

Miroku sighed, muttered something about being “deeply misunderstood,” and slouched off.

Kohaku met his sister’s eyes over Kagome’s head. Just the faintest nod of approval passed between them.

He didn’t trust it completely—Sango wasn’t above flipping the board mid-game—but for now, she was on his side. And for tonight, that meant Kagome would have a little more breathing room.

Which was good.

Because the night was just getting started, and the last thing Kohaku needed was his woman cornered before dinner was even served.

Chapter Text

Chapter 41: The Invitation

Dinner had gone far better than he’d braced for.

The house had been full of chatter—Miroku filling silence like it was his sole mission in life, his father telling stories, his mother casually steering conversation with the elegance of someone who knew exactly how much power she held over the table. And Kagome? She’d been quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Listening, smiling politely when it was called for, even letting herself laugh once or twice when Sango slipped in a barb at Miroku’s expense.

Kohaku hadn’t pushed her to talk. He hadn’t needed to. Her presence alone had already softened the usual chaos into something almost civilized. For once, no shouting debates, no overly personal stories about their childhood being weaponized against him. Just…dinner. Surprisingly smooth.

And maybe, just maybe, it was because he’d sat beside her, anchoring her in the room. Eating with one hand, the other resting steady on her lap under the table. Not possessive, not pressing—just a weight. A reminder. That she wasn’t in this alone. That he was here.

She’d leaned into it slowly, almost unconsciously. At first stiff, then gradually relaxed, her thigh pressing against his, her hand brushing his under the table more than once when she reached for her glass. And with every small touch, every silent acknowledgment, his chest had gotten warmer.

By the time dessert plates had been scraped clean and his father leaned back, declaring he was “too old to eat like this anymore,” Kohaku noticed Kagome’s yawn. Not a dainty little thing, but the kind that made her blink slowly after, shoulders sagging just a fraction.

She was tired.

He saw it in the way she got quieter, the way her fingers toyed with her napkin instead of her fork. Every inch of her said she was fading, that polite smile now the only thing keeping her from face-planting into her plate.

And then—like a wolf scenting blood—his mother tilted her head, eyes narrowing with that dangerous little glint that meant she was about to pounce.

“Would you two,” she said lightly, voice perfectly casual, “like to spend the night here?”

Kohaku didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

But his grip under the table tightened just slightly over Kagome’s knee.

Because he knew exactly what his mother was doing.

And gods help him, part of him wanted to say yes—because the thought of Kagome curled up in his old room, in his bed, wasn’t exactly a hardship. But the other part? The one that knew his mother never asked questions without hidden daggers tucked neatly inside them? That part braced for the fallout.

This was no simple offer. This was a test.

And Kagome had no idea what battlefield she’d just been dropped into.

Kohaku felt it before she even said it—the tiny pause in her body, the inhale, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Kagome hesitated. And in this family, hesitation was as good as throwing blood into shark-infested waters.

She caught herself a second too late. And then, because Kagome was Kagome—polite, kind, unwilling to offend even when cornered—she defaulted into the worst possible answer.

“Yes,” she said, voice soft, almost apologetic.

Kohaku’s jaw locked.

Fuck.

There it was—the automatic yes. The answer she gave when she didn’t want to seem rude, when she hadn’t had time to think through what she actually wanted. And to his mother, that would read as consent. Open invitation. A free pass to press further, to wedge herself into Kagome’s space and make a permanent seat there before Kagome even realized what happened.

His thumb rubbed once, firmly, against her knee. A subtle signal. I caught that. I see you.

His mother, of course, smiled like a cat who’d just lapped cream. “Wonderful,” she said warmly, already looking at Sango as if there were sheets to be pulled and a room to be readied.

Kagome, bless her, tried to rally with another smile. She didn’t see the teeth behind their mother’s. Didn’t see the way the trap had sprung the moment she’d nodded. But Kohaku did. He always did.

And as the conversation rolled smoothly forward, as Miroku started rambling about how “newly engaged couples” probably preferred their privacy anyway, Kohaku leaned slightly closer, his lips almost brushing Kagome’s temple when he murmured, low enough for her alone:

“You hesitated.”

She froze, fingers tightening around the napkin still clutched in her lap. “I—I didn’t—”

“You did,” he said quietly, not accusing, not unkind. Just a statement. A fact. “And then you defaulted.”

Her head turned just enough for him to see the faint flush climbing her cheeks, the way her eyes darted to the table like she’d been caught sneaking sweets before dinner.

And gods, he wanted to laugh, because she looked mortified. But instead, he steadied her with another squeeze of his hand.

“It’s fine,” he whispered, calm, certain, his voice the weight of an anchor. “I’ll handle it.”

Because she didn’t know this family. She didn’t know that saying yes wasn’t safety—it was an invitation to chaos. And he’d be damned if he let his mother or anyone else run Kagome off before she’d even fully realized what she wanted.

Not after everything it had taken to get her this far.

Kohaku leaned back in his chair with the kind of practiced calm that came from a lifetime of being raised in the lion’s den. To anyone watching, he looked relaxed, almost bored, one hand still idly resting on Kagome’s knee under the table. But in reality? He was bracing, calculating. Because if he didn’t step in now, this would spiral, and Kagome would get swallowed whole by his family’s relentless brand of “hospitality.”

His mother had already opened her mouth, no doubt about to launch into an enthusiastic list of where they could stay, which rooms were available, what sheets were freshly laundered—when Kohaku cut cleanly across the table, smooth as glass:

“Actually,” he said, voice calm but firm, “we’ll be heading home tonight.”

The silence was immediate, sharp as the crack of a whip. Sango blinked. Miroku, mouth full of rice, froze like a deer mid-chew. His father raised one brow with slow amusement. His mother… well, his mother narrowed her eyes at him with that dangerous sparkle that said she’d caught every layer of meaning in his interruption.

Kagome stiffened beside him, her head snapping toward him in quiet panic, probably already rehearsing apologies in her mind. He didn’t give her the chance.

“I appreciate the offer,” Kohaku continued smoothly, gaze steady, posture unbothered. “But we’ve had a long week, and Kagome deserves her own bed tonight.”

Under the table, his thumb traced another calming circle into her knee. Don’t panic. I’ve got this.

His mother smiled, slow and sharp. “Her own bed?” she repeated, testing the words, tasting them like wine.

Kohaku didn’t flinch. “The one she chose to share with me, yes.”

Kagome made a tiny, strangled sound next to him—half mortification, half disbelief—but he pressed on, decisive, commanding the narrative before anyone else could get their claws in.

“You all will see plenty of her,” he said with a finality that even his father had the sense to respect. “But tonight, she needs rest. And if I have to choose between proving her to you all in one night or letting her sleep, I’m going to choose sleep.”

Another silence. This one softer. More weighted.

And then, his father chuckled, a low rumble that broke the tension. “Spoken like a man who knows what matters.”

Sango rolled her eyes but smirked. Miroku swallowed his rice and muttered something about “boundaries” before catching Sango’s glare and going quiet again.

His mother, of course, wasn’t so easily swayed. But she leaned back in her chair, eyes flicking between Kohaku and Kagome, assessing. Hunting for cracks. And when she found none—because Kohaku made damn sure his expression was ironclad—she simply tilted her head and said, sweetly dangerous:

“Very well. But next time, darling, you don’t get to hide her from me.”

Kohaku smiled back, razor-sharp. “Next time, she’ll be ready.”

And just like that, he ended it. No argument. No further probing. Conversation shifted elsewhere, laughter resuming, and Kagome… Kagome finally let out the breath she’d been holding, shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. His hand never left her knee.

Chapter Text

Chapter 42: Thank Fucking God

The door shut behind them with a heavy click, cutting off the muffled laughter and voices of his family. For the first time all night, Kohaku let himself sag back against the driver’s seat, one hand dragging down his face as he exhaled a long, hard breath that was half laugh, half groan.

“Thank fucking god,” he muttered, chest loosening, shoulders finally dropping from the iron straight line he’d held them in all evening.

He didn’t even start the car right away. Just sat there in the dark driveway, engine off, both hands braced on the steering wheel while he let the tension bleed out of him. His family wasn’t bad. He loved them. He’d go to war for them. But gods, they were a lot. Too much for most people, even on a good day. And tonight, he’d been balancing his own nerves with Kagome’s silence, his mother’s sharpness, Sango’s curiosity, and Miroku’s nosiness.

It had been a fucking minefield.

And Kagome? She’d made it through.

He glanced sideways at her, finally. She was sitting prim and proper, seatbelt clicked, sundress folded neatly in her lap as if the act of arranging fabric was the only thing tethering her to reality. Her face was polite, composed. But her eyes—gods, her eyes were wide, her cheeks pink, and her hands gripping the dress like it might dissolve if she let go.

Kohaku couldn’t help it. A smirk tugged at his mouth. “You’re still breathing. That’s a win.”

She shot him a look that was part glare, part disbelief. “That…was your family?”

“That was them on their best behavior,” he said dryly, finally twisting the key in the ignition. “Trust me, you got off easy.”

Her mouth fell open in a soft gasp. “Easy? Kohaku, your mother just—” She cut herself off, shaking her head like she didn’t even know how to finish the sentence. “And your sister—” Another stop, another sharp exhale. “And Miroku was—”

“Nosey as fuck, yeah.” He grinned, amused despite himself. “But I warned you. Chaos. Every time.”

Her head fell back against the seat with a groan. “You could’ve warned me more.”

He laughed then, a deep, warm sound that filled the car. “If I’d warned you more, you would’ve run. And then what would I do?”

She turned her head toward him slowly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “So you…let me walk into the lion’s den unarmed?”

“Not unarmed.” His right hand left the wheel, found hers where she still had it fisted in her lap, and pried it gently open. Warm, steady, he laced their fingers together and gave her a squeeze. “I was right there. Whole time.”

Her lips parted, the beginnings of another protest rising but nothing came. Instead, she stared at their joined hands, a flush creeping higher up her neck.

Kohaku smirked again, victorious.

“Besides,” he added, softer now, thumb brushing her knuckles, “you did fine.”

She huffed, tried to look unimpressed, but her shoulders finally loosened as she slumped against the seat.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But you owe me.”

Kohaku chuckled. “Dinner tomorrow. Dessert too.”

That got her to roll her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, curling into a tiny smile.

And with that, Kohaku shifted the car into gear, pulling them out of the driveway and onto the quiet street, his chest still buzzing with relief.

Kohaku kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other still linked with hers, thumb idly stroking over her knuckles as the road stretched quiet and dark ahead of them. She’d been fighting yawns the entire ride, eyelids drooping heavier with each passing block, until finally her voice cracked through the silence, small, slurred with exhaustion.

“Do they…do they know we’re not actually engaged?”

The question hit him square in the chest.

His jaw ticked, his eyes flicked from the road to her profile, head tilted against the seat, lips parted just enough to give her away as half asleep, yet still sharp enough to twist his insides. He let the silence hang for a beat longer than necessary before answering, voice low, rougher than he intended.

“I don’t even know that.”

That made her eyes crack open, slow, cautious, blinking like she wasn’t sure she heard right. He kept his gaze forward, but the corner of his mouth curved with something wry.

“Don’t break my heart, Kagome,” he murmured. “If you need a ring just let me know. That’s an easy fix.”

Her breath hitched, then came out in a soft puff of disbelief, almost like a laugh, but not quite. More like she didn’t know whether to shove him or hide in his shirt. “I’m serious,” she mumbled, voice thick, heavy with sleep but edged in nerves.

And gods, so was he.

He tightened his grip on her hand, bringing it up just slightly, enough to brush the back of her fingers against his lips as he stole a kiss over her skin.

“Then let me make this serious.”

Her breath caught again. The sound was small, fragile, but it landed heavy inside his chest. He could feel her staring at him now, like she wanted to say something, but all that came was a soft huff, a whisper of air that trembled between disbelief and surrender.

And then, she curled more toward him, pulling her hand closer to her chest but not letting go of his. Like she wanted to keep arguing but her body had already betrayed her, leaning into him even while her brain tried to keep distance.

He smirked, eased them down a quiet street toward home, heart thudding like a war drum under his ribs.

If she thought he was bluffing? She’d learn soon enough.

Because Kohaku Taijiya wasn’t one to offer promises he didn’t intend to keep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Three: The Weight of Her
Kohaku’s POV

Kohaku had seen a lot of chaos in his life.

He’d watched numbers plummet during negotiations and turned them back around with nothing but grit and a smile. He’d stood in boardrooms where half a dozen executives were screaming at each other, only to walk out with every single one of them nodding in agreement. He’d flown overnight cross-country for a single meeting, landed, shaken a hand, and flown back like it was nothing.

But this?

This was chaos of another breed.

Because five minutes from the house, Kagome did what she did best: she fell asleep.

No hesitation. No shame. No acknowledgment of the fact that they were supposed to be debriefing the circus that had been family dinner. She just blinked once, twice, and then folded against the passenger seat, head tilted toward him, lips parted in soft, unguarded slumber.

And gods help him—Kohaku let her.

He pulled into the driveway as quietly as an engine could allow, killed the headlights, and sat for a moment just watching her. She was unfair like this. Too peaceful, too soft, too goddamn his for him to pretend otherwise anymore.

His unofficial wife, his fabricated fiancée, was curling her way straight into official territory without even trying. Without even knowing.

And the worst part?

He was letting her.

Hell, he was already debating timelines in his head. How long did a sane man wait before buying a ring? Six months? Three? Did he even care about sane timelines anymore? Because right now—watching her sleep in his car, wearing his scent, with his family’s laughter still echoing in his ears—he wanted to call jewelers tonight.

Kohaku got out slowly, shut the door with practiced silence, and moved around to her side. He unlocked the front door first, then came back, crouched, and scooped her into his arms with a gentleness that didn’t fit a man his size.

She stirred only slightly, murmured something incoherent into his chest, then settled again, her breath warm against his throat. Her hand found his shirt, fisting there even in sleep, like her subconscious had already made the choice her waking self kept running from.

He carried her inside like she weighed nothing, though the weight of her was everything. Through the living room, down the hall, into the bedroom. Every step was a prayer and a curse rolled into one: Don’t wake up. Don’t run. Don’t let this end.

He laid her down carefully, pulled the covers up around her shoulders, and brushed a few stray strands of hair from her face. For a second, he just stood there, shirt still rumpled from her grip, chest aching like something too big was trying to break through his ribs.

“Unofficial wife,” he whispered into the dark, the words barely audible. “Official feelings.”

He huffed a humorless laugh, rubbed a hand down his face, and muttered to himself like an idiot:

“Yeah. I’m screwed. Ring shopping tomorrow.”

And with that, he stripped out of his slacks, tugged off his shirt, and crawled in beside her—close enough that her warmth found him immediately, far enough that she wouldn’t accuse him of anything when she woke.

Still, as if she’d heard him, Kagome sighed in her sleep and rolled toward him, tucking herself into his side like she belonged there.

And Kohaku? He didn’t sleep. Not yet.

He just stared at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, thinking about jewelers and diamonds and how in the hell he was going to survive one more day without telling her everything.

Sleep wasn’t coming.

Not with her curled against him like this, small and soft and unconscious, hand fisted in the fabric at his hip as if her body didn’t trust the idea of distance. Not with her breath ghosting over his chest, little sighs leaving her lips every so often that made his ribs ache with something warm and dangerous.

Thirty minutes. That’s how long he stared at the ceiling, arm locked around her, mind racing with the sharp edge of adrenaline that only came from falling too fast and too far.

And then, like the absolute idiot he was becoming, Kohaku reached for his phone.

The glow of the screen lit the room just enough for him to see the outline of her cheek against his shoulder. He froze for half a heartbeat, making sure she didn’t stir, and when she didn’t, he opened the browser and did what insane men in love did at 2 a.m.

He looked at rings.

Scroll. Tap. Scroll.

Diamond cuts, settings, bands. Solitaire. Oval. Princess cut. Halo. Modern minimalist or vintage filigree. He had no business even pretending to make these decisions, not yet, but his brain was a runaway train. Would she want something delicate? Something practical for work? Something bold? Or something so timeless she’d never have to think twice?

He paused on one. Slim gold band, small stone, understated but elegant. The kind of ring that whispered instead of shouted. Her style, he thought. Quiet strength.

And then he scrolled again because no, maybe she deserved something bigger. Something that sparkled when she waved her hand during one of those endless meetings she complained about. Something that reminded her coworkers she was loved, claimed, chosen.

Kohaku groaned softly under his breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was a grown man, a CEO who could close million-dollar contracts before lunch, and here he was at two-thirty in the damn morning debating ring styles like a lovesick teenager.

Kagome murmured something in her sleep and shifted, thigh hooking over his leg.

He went still. Heart jackhammering.

Her fingers twitched against his side, nails scraping lightly against his skin through his shirt. Then, with a sigh that sounded a hell of a lot like contentment, she settled again.

Kohaku stared down at her in disbelief.

“Official fiancée it is,” he whispered, quiet, almost reverent, kissing the crown of her head before setting his phone back down on the nightstand.

He didn’t sleep. Not really. But for the first time all night, the chaos in his chest felt less like panic and more like inevitability.

Because ring or no ring, sooner or later—
She was going to be his.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Four: Insurance Policy
Kohaku’s POV

Kohaku didn’t sleep. Not a wink.

He lay there the entire night with Kagome draped over him, her weight a tether, her breath brushing warm against his skin, and his brain a storm that refused to quiet. By the time the horizon shifted gray and the first streaks of dawn slid through the curtains, his eyes burned, his body begged for rest, and his chest felt like someone had crammed it full of live wires.

At six, he gave up.

Carefully—painfully carefully—he extricated himself from Kagome’s hold. She stirred once, rolled into the pillow, and let out the softest sigh, like even in sleep she disapproved of him leaving. He smiled in spite of himself, grabbed a pen from the counter, and scrawled a note on the back of an old receipt before heading out.

Kagome—
Ran some errands. Back by lunch with food. If you need me, be a good wife and call.
—K.

He left it propped against the coffee machine where she couldn’t miss it.

Then, with keys in hand and heart doing its best impression of a war drum, he drove into Tokyo’s quiet morning streets.

The destination? A jewelry store. Newly popular, sleek, discreet. Opened at seven sharp.

It was insane. He knew it. Hell, he muttered it under his breath the whole drive like a mantra: This is insane. This is insane.

But he also knew himself. He’d rather be a man who had a ring he might never use than a man who reached for the moment and came up empty-handed.

Because what if?

What if, in one of those quiet nights when she was sprawled across him, soft and safe and mumbling about being his unofficial wife, there came a pause—an opening—a chance to turn fiction into fact? What if she looked at him, unguarded, and he had the perfect second to ask, Can we drop the unofficial part?

And he didn’t have a ring?

The very thought made his chest hurt.

Of course, there was the other side of it too. The shadow. The possibility she’d say no.

That thought was worse. Dangerous. A slow kind of ache that settled deep and heavy under his ribs, the kind that whispered he might be setting himself up for disaster.

But Kohaku had never been the kind of man to bet against himself.

So he drove.

By the time he parked, the city was waking—shops opening, commuters rushing, delivery trucks weaving through tight streets. He sat behind the wheel for a long moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, taking one last breath before stepping into the fire he was willingly walking into.

Then, with that stubborn, reckless confidence that had built his entire life, he got out. And walked straight into a jewelry store at seven in the morning.

Because unofficial wife or not, Kagome Higurashi had already claimed him. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t ready the second she gave him the chance to claim her back.

The chime above the door was too cheerful for how serious this felt. A light little ding, the kind that announced customers looking for birthday trinkets or anniversary earrings. Not men about to lose their entire composure in front of glass cases and velvet boxes.

Kohaku stepped inside and forced himself to breathe through his nose, shoulders squared, steps measured. He was a CEO. A strategist. A man who’d stared down cutthroat competitors and turned their bluster into contracts. He was not, under any circumstance, going to look like a panicked idiot in a jewelry store at seven in the morning.

Except that’s exactly what he was.

The place smelled faintly of polish and new carpet. The lighting was soft, deliberate, designed to make stones gleam like captured stars. Each case glittered with endless possibilities, rows of rings arranged with surgical precision, reflecting back at him like they knew every secret he was trying to keep buried.

He walked slow. Too slow. Eyes scanning diamonds, bands, settings, all blurring into white light and gold edges until his chest ached with the weight of it. He leaned over one case, then another, studying, comparing, rejecting everything without really knowing why.

And that’s when a woman appeared—poised, polished, the kind of professional who knew the difference between hesitation and certainty from ten steps away. She stopped at his side, not pushy, not overeager, but patient in that way that said she’d done this before.

“Good morning,” she said warmly. “Looking for something special today?”

Kohaku didn’t glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on the glass. “Something like that.”

Her smile carried into her voice. “For your fiancée?”

The word hit harder than he expected. Fiancée. He didn’t correct her. Couldn’t.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

“Wonderful.” She tilted her head. “Has she spoken about styles she likes? Cut, setting, metal? Anything you can share?”

Kohaku straightened, hands in his pockets, face impassive even as his chest burned. He shook his head once. “Not really. But I’ll know it when I see it.”

The woman’s brows arched slightly, the kind of look that said she wasn’t unfamiliar with men like him—confident in business, utterly adrift in matters of taste. But she didn’t push.

“Does she have social media?” she asked gently. “Instagram, perhaps? Photos can sometimes give us clues. Style, personality, little details she might not say aloud but shows in what she shares.”

That thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. His jaw tightened. He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t even looked. Not once. Too busy with her in person to bother with the curated version she gave the world.

But the woman was right. Kagome had to leave a trail somewhere. And if it helped him avoid buying something she’d secretly hate? It was worth the hit to his pride.

“I’ll… look,” he said finally. “Give me a minute.”

She smiled, inclined her head. “Of course. I’ll give you some space.”

When she stepped away, Kohaku pulled out his phone, thumb moving with more nerves than he’d like to admit. Kagome Higurashi. The name alone felt heavy, too familiar and too new at the same time.

And then, there she was.

Public account.

His stomach sank and lifted all at once.

Her posts weren’t selfies or staged outfits. They weren’t the kind of glossy filtered snapshots that screamed for attention. No—Kagome’s page was…her.

Shrine grounds glowing in spring light. Blossoms falling like snow over temple steps. Close-ups of flowers, of moss on stone, of candles lit in quiet corners. Work photos too, conference tables, laptops, one or two shots of tired coworkers grinning with coffee in hand. And nature. Always nature. Trees at golden hour, skies reflected in puddles, even the shadow of her hand stretched across the grass.

It hit him like a punch to the ribs: Kagome saw the world in fragments of beauty. Not polished, not loud, but fleeting, delicate, caught in moments most people rushed past.

Kohaku exhaled slowly, phone trembling slightly in his hand.

When the saleswoman returned, he handed her the screen without a word. She scrolled, lips curving into a knowing smile before she passed it back.

“Simplicity with elegance,” she said softly. “She doesn’t need something extravagant to feel loved. She finds beauty in the quiet. Let me show you our options.”

Kohaku followed her deeper into the store, chest heavy, throat tight.

Because now, it wasn’t just about buying a ring. It was about buying something worthy of the way Kagome saw the world.

Something worthy of the way she’d started to see him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Five: Larger Than Logic
Kohaku’s POV

It was stupid.

Gods, it was stupid.

Kohaku Taijiya, rational man, master of strategy, and lifelong skeptic of impulse-driven decisions, was standing in a jewelry store at seven-thirty in the morning debating between two rings.

And the kicker?

He and Kagome weren’t even officially… anything. Not by the standards most people would use, anyway.

Sure,they were engaged at her office.
Dating to his family, technically.
Dating in the quiet, chaotic sense of two people who had stumbled into each other’s lives and immediately started sharing beds, breakfasts, and secrets.

She had gotten into his taxi that day. She was staying in his rented house. She ate his food, wore his shirt, slept with her face buried in his chest. And together, they played coy, joking about “unofficial husband and wife” when the truth was clear: they were building a life, even if neither wanted to say it out loud yet.

And here he was, shopping for rings like a man already ten steps ahead of his own sanity.

The saleswoman had narrowed it down beautifully. Simplicity with elegance. Both options gleamed under the lights, waiting for him to make the leap.

One was delicate, thin band, modest stone, timeless and understated. The kind of ring that whispered love in soft syllables.

The other…wasn’t loud. Not ostentatious. But it carried weight. A slightly larger stone, a band with the faintest curve, catching the light in a way that demanded a second glance. Strong without being overwhelming. Beautiful without being fragile.

Kohaku stared at them both, chest tight. Logic said the smaller one. Safer. Easier to wear day-to-day. Something Kagome could look at and smile without worrying about snagging it on her blazer.

But his heart? His heart betrayed him. Because she wasn’t a whisper. She was a storm. She was the woman who drooled on him mid-flight, curled into him without asking, bulldozed into his sanity and rebuilt it from scratch. She wasn’t a small stone. She wasn’t safe. She wasn’t easy.

She was larger than logic. 

Kohaku exhaled sharply through his nose, nodding once like he was signing a damn contract. “That one,” he said, voice low, steady. His hand gestured toward the larger ring.

The saleswoman’s smile was knowing, indulgent, like she’d seen a hundred men in his exact position. “Excellent choice.”

He handed over his card without flinching. Without blinking. He signed the receipt like he was sealing fate itself.

And when the velvet box was finally in his hand, tucked small and discreet into his pocket, he felt a weight heavier than its size could justify.

Was it insane? Absolutely. But better insane with a ring in his pocket than sane and empty-handed when the perfect moment arrived.

Because sooner or later, Kagome Higurashi was going to stop being unofficial. And Kohaku was damn well going to be ready.

The box stayed in his pocket.

He didn’t know why. Or gods, maybe he did. Maybe he liked the weight of it there, like a secret he wasn’t ready to share but couldn’t bear to put down. Every time he shifted in the car, he felt the faint press of the velvet against his thigh. Every time he reached for his wallet, he brushed against it, sharp reminder, steady ache.

Breakfast was almost an afterthought. He ducked into a café, ordered two coffees, some pastries, something light enough for her to eat in bed if she wanted. He kept his phone face-down on the counter while waiting, ignoring the buzzing that told him his family was already up and curious. All he cared about was getting back to her before she woke and wondered where he’d gone.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the sun was just beginning to warm the edges of the sky, painting Tokyo gold. Kohaku slipped out of the car, balancing the tray of food and drinks with one hand, patting the pocket with the ring box once, almost out of habit, before heading inside.

The house was quiet. Still.

And Kagome, gods bless her, was still asleep.

Her hair was a dark halo across the pillow, her arm sprawled over to his side of the bed as though she’d reached for him in her sleep. The sheets were tangled, the neckline of his shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin that begged for his mouth.

He set the food down silently on the counter, stripped out of his jacket, and padded barefoot back to the bedroom. The velvet box stayed exactly where it was, in his pocket, burning a hole through him with the knowledge of what it meant.

And then? He wasted no time.

He slid back into bed beside her, easing under the covers, careful not to wake her. The moment he was close enough, she stirred, soft, instinctive, and rolled toward him, fitting herself against his side like she’d been waiting. One sigh, one sleepy nuzzle into his chest, and she was out again, clinging to him like his body was the only thing tethering her to rest.

Kohaku tilted his head back against the headboard, one arm curving around her automatically. His free hand slipped up into her hair, combing slowly through the strands until her breathing evened out again.

Pocket heavy. Chest heavier.

Because for the first time in his life, he wanted to stay right here forever.

And forever suddenly felt terrifyingly possible.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Six: Sweet Enough
Kohaku’s POV

She woke to the smell.

Coffee, rich and dark, drifting from the counter. Pastries still warm in their paper bag, sugar and frosting turning the air almost sweet. Her lashes fluttered, nose twitching like she’d caught the scent mid-dream, and when her eyes finally opened, sleep-heavy, hair a wild halo around her face, she smiled.

Not polite. Not professional. Not the weary smile she gave coworkers when they dropped a binder on her desk.

This one was soft. Delighted. Pure. Gods help him, she looked at coffee like salvation. And breakfast like joy.

Kohaku lay there watching her sit up, hair sliding over her shoulder as she padded toward the counter, pulling the bag open with reverence. She tore into a pastry, hummed at the taste, and he swore it was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

The cutest damn woman he’d ever met.

And she didn’t even know. Didn’t know there was a velvet box hidden just inches from her, holding a ring worth several months of his paycheck, worth more than that to him, because it was a promise.

He kept the secret.

Just got up, joined her, leaned against the counter while she sat on a stool with her legs tucked up, chewing happily. He sipped his coffee, eyes never leaving her. Every move she made carved him deeper into the insanity of this thing.

And then he saw it. 

Frosting. Smudged across the corner of her mouth, glinting white against soft skin.

His chance. His opening. Now or never.

“You’ve got something,” he murmured, gesturing lightly to her lips.

Her brows knit, and she swiped with her tongue—missed completely.

Kohaku chuckled low in his chest. “Here. Let me.”

Before she could argue, he reached out, slow, deliberate, dragged his thumb across her mouth, collecting the streak of sugar. His eyes never left hers.

And then, without breaking that gaze, he licked it off his finger.

Her breath hitched. Her body stilled.

That was it. That was his green light.

Kohaku leaned in, slow enough for her to stop him if she wanted. She didn’t. She sat frozen, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

He kissed her.

Soft at first, testing. Pressing his mouth to hers in a slow, savoring slide. She let him. Let him taste the sugar and the heat of her, let him breathe her in like he’d been starving.

And when he deepened it, when his hand slid into her hair and his mouth pressed harder, hotter, she broke.

Her arms came up, wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer with a needy sound that made his chest ache and his cock throb all at once. She kissed him back, shy at first, then sure, lips parting, letting him in.

Kohaku groaned against her mouth, one hand gripping the counter behind her, the other cradling the back of her head like she was something fragile he couldn’t risk losing.

Sweet. Soft. Fucking perfect.

She pulled back, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes wide like she’d been caught stealing. For a second, Kagome just stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, like her own body had betrayed her.

Then, predictably, adorably, she tried to cover.

“Wow,” she said, voice soft but aiming for flippant. “You’re really committed to breakfast foreplay.”

Kohaku didn’t move. Didn’t laugh. Just let the words hang between them until she squirmed.

Because to him? This wasn’t a joke.

His hand was still in her hair, his thumb brushing absent circles against her temple. His other arm braced against the counter, caging her in without crowding her. She could’ve slipped away. She didn’t.

“You think I’m joking?” he asked, voice low, even.

Her mouth opened, closed. She looked away, somewhere near his collarbone, like if she avoided his eyes she could dodge the truth. “I think—”

He tilted her chin back up with two fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Don’t do that.”

Her breath caught. “Do what?”

“Pretend.” His eyes softened, but his tone didn’t waver. “Pretend this is just sugar on your mouth. Pretend it’s just foreplay. Pretend it doesn’t mean something.”

Her lips parted again, maybe to argue, maybe to deflect, but Kohaku pressed forward before she could retreat into her walls.

“I don’t joke about this,” he said simply.

Her pulse fluttered under his touch, quick and wild, like a bird trapped between them. “Kohaku…” she whispered, uncertain.

He leaned in, forehead brushing hers, his breath warm against her lips. “Beautiful, if you want to call it a mistake, I’ll let you. If you want to pretend this doesn’t matter, I’ll play along. But don’t ever think I’m laughing about what just happened.”

Silence. Heavy. Fragile.

Then, so quiet he almost missed it, “It’s not a mistake.”

Kohaku closed his eyes for a second, fighting the urge to fist-pump like a teenage boy. Instead, he exhaled slow, steady, and pressed the gentlest kiss to her temple.

“Good,” he murmured, lips lingering against her skin. “Because gods help me, I don’t think I could stop if it was.”

She shivered against him, and he felt her arms, hesitant at first, then firmer, wrap around his waist again.

She hadn’t admitted everything. Not yet. But she hadn’t run. And in Kohaku’s book? That was the kind of win you built futures on.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Shift
Kohaku’s POV

It wasn’t a confession. Not in words, not in anything neat or cinematic. She hadn’t whispered some late-morning I think I love you into his throat, hadn’t sat him down to lay out what this was or where it was going. Kagome wasn’t built like that. She thought too much, carried too much, held her cards close to her chest until they bent.

But after that kiss? After his mouth had claimed hers and his voice had told her—plain, firm—that this wasn’t a joke? She breathed easier around him.

And Kohaku, who had been living in a careful balance of don’t scare her and don’t lose her, noticed. Every second. Every inch of it.

It was small things at first. A brush of her fingers when she walked past him in the living room, so fleeting, so subtle, he almost thought he’d imagined it. But no, her eyes had flicked up, caught his, and she hadn’t looked away. Victory number one.

Then in the kitchen, while he poured tea and tried to convince himself he wasn’t just staring at her like a starving man, she came close. Close enough he could smell the faint lavender of her shampoo. Close enough her head tilted back to look up at him, and instead of saying thank you like any normal human being, she leaned in, pressed her lips to his chest, right over his sternum.

A soft, casual kiss. Like she’d been doing it for years.

“Thanks for the tea,” she murmured against him, then pulled back like it was nothing.

Kohaku stood there, heartbeat a hammer against the spot she’d kissed, tea kettle nearly slipping from his grip, and thought: that wasn’t nothing.

Because affection from Kagome wasn’t cheap. It wasn’t automatic. It wasn’t the kind of thing she handed out because she thought she should. No, her walls were too high, her logic too sharp, her fear of attachment too ingrained.

So every graze of her hand? Every kiss against his chest? Every little gesture of hers that said I feel safe enough to do this?

Those were victories.

Real ones.

And gods, if he didn’t feel like a fucking king, standing there in his own kitchen, with a woman who wasn’t officially his, but was slowly, surely letting him in.

This thing between them didn’t have a title yet. Not one they could say out loud without laughing or stumbling. But it had weight now. Substance. Something real enough to make him think maybe, just maybe, the word wife wasn’t so far off after all.

Her bravery had a rhythm now. Not loud, not showy, but steady. And it carried into the evening like it had been waiting all day to test itself.

He was pulling ice cream from the freezer when Kagome padded over, soft steps on tile, and pressed into him with the kind of sigh that vibrated through his ribs. A giggle. A full-bodied thank you hug, her cheek warm against his chest as if she belonged there.

She melted. Just…melted into him like he was some unshakable foundation, and gods, he wanted to freeze time.

Kohaku, because he had practice in pretending he wasn’t a complete fool, just nodded. Kissed her forehead. Acted like this was normal, like his heart wasn’t doing violent gymnastics, and got back to the ice cream as if he didn’t want to run outside and scream that he’d found his forever in a Tokyo kitchen with a pint of mochi-flavored gelato.

Later, when the bowls were empty and the TV droned on, Kagome curled sideways into him, head pillowed on his thigh. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, her body loose with exhaustion, her breathing slow. But she was stubborn even half-asleep.

“If I’m too heavy…” she mumbled, words slurring together. “…leave me on the couch.”

Kohaku stared down at her. The ridiculousness of it nearly undid him. Too heavy? She weighed less than his luggage, and she had the audacity to suggest he’d ever leave her behind.

He slipped one arm under her knees, the other bracing her back, and lifted her in one smooth motion. She stirred, a soft protest lost in the folds of his shirt, but he didn’t pause.

Curling her against his chest, he whispered into her hair, voice low, half a growl, half a vow.

“Never leaving you anywhere, beautiful.”

Her body gave the smallest hum of approval before sleep claimed her completely, her breath warm against his collarbone.

And Kohaku sat there, holding her, every nerve alive, every bone certain, this was it. This was theirs. Not just for tonight. But maybe for always.