“You know, one of these days you could just
to come in.”
Hiyori speaks with her back to the window, cracked open to allow a ribbon of soft night air into the bedroom.
Along with the liquid sweetness of cherry blossoms and grass, there’s another smell: a scent that shimmers over her skin. Even in her human body, she detects it.
When she speaks at full volume into the silence, something heavy thumps behind the curtain, and Hiyori calmly ignores the hair-raising volley of muttered curses that follows.
Yato may be a god, but even gods stub their toes.
She turns around to see him untangling himself from the drapery, and goes over to help him before the curtain rod comes down on his head.
“Just checking for ayakashi,” he explains, eyes watering. He balances on one leg, leaning against the windowsill to hold his injured right foot. “I was going to look under your bed next.”
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