The storm had quieted, but the hush it left behind was heavier than the rain had ever been. The kind of silence that seeped between the wooden beams and settled in the lungs like smoke. Outside, the pond still rippled with the memory of wind, and the distant hum of frogs announced that night had truly taken hold. Inside the house, everything was still — except for the low, golden flicker of a single lantern in the far room.

Edward Langford stood in the hallway, one hand braced against the wooden doorframe, the other curled in a slow, thoughtful fist at his side. His jacket hung unbuttoned, shirt sleeves rolled up to the forearm, the skin damp from sweat or rain — he couldn’t tell which anymore. He hadn’t planned to stop here. Hadn’t planned to watch.

But he couldn’t help himself.

The room she’d chosen — or assumed was hers — was meant for guests. Spare. Clean. Unused, though not unlived-in. He’d entered it rarely in the months since Saitō had gifted him this house. It held no history for him. No memory. It was as neutral a space as one could find, and yet now, with her presence, it felt strangely occupied. Almost... claimed.

She was kneeling near the edge of the futon, smoothing the thin quilt into place with slow, practiced hands. Every movement she made was deliberate, almost ceremonial, like muscle memory taught by someone who had demanded precision and silence her entire life. There was no fumbling, no uncertainty — but neither was there comfort. She did not move like a woman settling into a home. She moved like a shadow returning to its corner.

Her hair, still damp from the rain, clung in dark ribbons to the side of her neck. A single tendril curved just beneath her ear, trailing toward her collarbone. Her kimono had shifted slightly from the work — not indecent, but askew — the sash loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. He doubted she even noticed. And yet he did.

Edward’s mouth set in a hard line. He should’ve walked away the moment he’d shown her the room. He had no reason to linger here, no obligation to her beyond basic civility. Saitō had made it clear — she was a diplomatic gesture. A “gift.” A symbol of goodwill, and nothing more. Not his servant. Not his mistress. Not his concern.

And yet, he remained rooted to the floor, watching her without a word, something uneasy growing behind his ribs — not desire, not yet, but something close to recognition. The quiet kind. The dangerous kind.

“You don’t belong here,” he said at last, his voice low and toneless, almost as if he were speaking to himself rather than her.

She didn’t startle. She didn’t lift her eyes or flinch or pretend not to understand him. Her hands kept moving, folding the corner of the blanket with the same careful grace. It was only after a few seconds passed that she responded — not with words, but by shifting slightly, her back straightening as if to silently confirm what he already knew: she hadn’t chosen this.

“I didn’t ask for you,” he added, harsher than before. A crack in his voice that surprised even him.

That time, she paused.

It was subtle — just a stillness in her fingers, a breath held half a second longer than necessary. Then, slowly, she sat back on her heels and looked at him, her gaze steady, unblinking, and quiet in a way that unsettled him more than outright defiance ever could.

He stared at her. For a long time, he said nothing.

Edward shifted his weight. The wood beneath his feet groaned softly, and the sound broke whatever thread had passed between them.

Without another word, he stepped back into the hallway and reached for the sliding shōji. Before he closed it, he glanced toward her again — once, quickly — and said with a flat edge to his voice

“Lock the door from the inside. You’ll sleep easier.”

The panel clicked into place with finality, and he was gone.

But even long after his footsteps had faded, the echo of his voice remained in the air between them. And so did the realization that for all his coldness, the first thing he’d thought to offer her was safety.

Even if it was only in the form of a lock.