Higanbana crouched over the small flame, her crimson eyes reflecting its flickering glow. The forest stretched around them—vast, silent, and dangerous. The towering trees whispered in the night breeze, their branches clawing toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The air smelled of damp earth and distant rain, but here, within the fragile bubble of firelight, she felt warmth. Real warmth.
For the first time since escaping that cruel place, she could cook a real meal.
The scent of roasted meat curled through the crisp air, rich and full, sinking into her skin like an embrace. The broth simmered gently, steam rising in soft tendrils. She gripped the wooden ladle tightly, stirring with slow, practiced movements, her fingers steady, though her heart trembled. The act felt sacred. Almost unreal.
She had waited so long for this.
In that dark place, food had been nothing but a cruel necessity. It was tasteless, sometimes cold, always insufficient. Hunger had been a constant companion, gnawing at her ribs until the ache became a part of her, something to bear like a second skin. She remembered watching others waste away, their hollow eyes dull with quiet surrender. She had eaten just enough to survive. No more. No warmth. No comfort.
But now—now she could cook.
Now she could feed Amatsu a real meal.
The realization struck her so suddenly that laughter almost bubbled up her throat. A fragile, trembling joy. She swallowed it back, blinking quickly as the fire crackled before her. The scent of herbs and meat filled her lungs, but what filled her chest was something more. Something she could not name.
She glanced at Amatsu. He sat in his usual manner—cold, unreadable, his crimson eyes fixed on the flames. The dim light cast long shadows over his face, sharpening his features into something distant and untouchable. He had given her this life, kept her alive when no one else would. And now, for the first time, she could give something back.
She filled a wooden bowl carefully, hands steady despite the pounding in her chest. The broth was golden, the meat tender, the herbs blending in delicate harmony. A simple dish, but it was hers. It was warmth. It was life.
She stepped forward, hesitating only for a breath before holding the bowl out to him. "Eat."
Amatsu did not react at first. His gaze flickered toward the bowl, then back to the fire. He had eaten countless times before—rations, stolen meals, whatever was necessary to survive. Food had always been a means to an end. A function. A requirement.
Yet, this was different.
The scent curled into the night air, persistent in a way he could not ignore. He accepted the bowl without a word, the heat pressing into his palms. The broth shimmered under the firelight, rich and fragrant, each element carefully placed. He could see the effort in every detail, the quiet intention behind it.
He took a bite.
The taste settled on his tongue—simple, but warm. Something in his chest tightened.
It was absurd. Foolish. This meant nothing. And yet…
His fingers curled slightly around the bowl. Across the fire, Higanbana watched him, her small hands folded neatly in her lap, her crimson eyes filled with something quiet and unwavering. The firelight danced in her gaze, a fragile glow.
A familiar instinct stirred in him—one that told him to push this aside, to remind himself that sentiment had no place in survival. That warmth was dangerous. That nothing lasted.
Ryojin, on the other hand, was far from silent. He tore into his meal with reckless abandon, golden eyes gleaming as he devoured the food without hesitation.
"Damn," he muttered between bites. "Didn't expect the little princess to cook like this."
Higanbana only giggled softly, watching them eat.
She had survived. She had endured. And now, she could give this small kindness back to the one who had kept her alive.
Amatsu had never thought much about food. To him, eating was a necessity, nothing more.
But now, as he chewed, there was something different about it.
The broth was rich. The meat, though simple, was cooked with care. The faint aroma of herbs lingered, soothing in a way he could not explain.
He looked at Higanbana.
She was watching him. Always watching.
Her small hands remained folded in her lap, her crimson eyes shining with something indescribable. A quiet, unwavering joy.
She had smiled before, but this was different. This was pure.
Ryojin nudged him with an elbow, grinning. "She's looking at you like you hung the damn moon, Amatsu."
Amatsu said nothing. He merely took another bite, letting the warmth spread through him. It was foolish. Sentimental. But for the first time in a long while, he did not mind.
Higanbana served them with care, her hands delicate, precise. She cradled her own bowl, holding the moment gently, as if it might slip through her fingers like sand. Because she knew it would. Nothing in their world lasted.
Slowly, she shifted, inching just a little closer to Amatsu. Not enough to touch, not enough to break the silence. Just enough to feel the faint presence of his warmth beside her.
Amatsu didn't move away.
He didn't acknowledge it either.
He only lifted his bowl, drinking the last of the broth with the same calculated efficiency as everything else in his life. Yet, for the briefest second, he paused. Just barely. The weight of the moment settled on him, unspoken, unwanted, yet undeniably there.
She was watching him again. Always watching.
As if she wanted to carve him into memory. As if she already knew this would not last.
His fingers tightened around the bowl for just a moment before he set it down beside him, the faint clink of ceramic against stone lost in the night.
Higanbana held onto her bowl, letting its fading warmth seep into her skin. She wanted to keep it, to trap the feeling inside, to hold onto this night for just a little longer.
But she knew better.
One day, he would leave.
That was the nature of the world.
But until then—until the cold swallowed them once more, until reality tore them apart—she would keep giving.
She would carve warmth into the fleeting moments they still had.
Because even if all of this was destined to end, even if time would take him from her…
Even if this would end, she could say she had this.