Crunch-crunch go the leaves underfoot, with the occasional cricket chirp cutting through the dead-quiet night.
Lin Yūri's plastered to Makoto's back, brain a total yarn-ball-after-cat mess. Her cheek's smooshed against the short hairs on his nape—damp from night dew, sure, but the real kicker? That dude smell. Not funky sweat, nah—clean teen musk mixed with post-battle steam and sun-baked grass. Straight-up alpha pheromones drilling into her skull, making her dizzy as hell.
And those back muscles? Flexing like clockwork with every step—solid, warm, safe. Thin shirt doing jack to hide the power coiled under there. First time this bloodthirsty Mist loli's ever been this close to a guy. Heart's doing cardio sprints, cheeks on fire, ears glowing like neon.
The raging bonfire of "I'LL KILL HIM" from getting wrecked and humiliated? Doused with lukewarm water. Still smoldering, but now there's this weird fog: confusion, a tiny lean-in vibe, and—god forbid—a sliver of safety?
Get your shit together, Yūri! she snarls internally. This asshole almost— But her brain nopes out, drifting to: He stopped. Didn't kill me. Didn't violate me. Just laid down terms… Dude's a monster, but maybe not a total dick?
How the hell does he train? Kid's got chakra like a damn tailed beast and lightning jutsu from another planet…
Plot twist: Makoto's way younger than he looks.
What really twists her gut? He's got his entire back exposed. She's tapped out, yeah, but a pro assassin knows chokeholds. He trusts her not to snap his neck? Or just thinks she's harmless?
That trust hits like a pebble in a pond—tiny ripples of warmth. Curiosity about this mystery punk? Skyrocketing.
Makoto's feeling it too. Girl on his back weighs nothing—fragile as fuck. Started out rigid like a pissed-off hedgehog, but now? Limp, exhausted, melted. Breathing's gone from panicked huffs to soft, even kitten snores.
Guess the feral gremlin's just a tired kid when the tank's empty, he smirks. All bark, no bite when wiped. Kinda cute. He's already hyped for the chaos this "legal loli POW" will bring.
Moonlight stretches their shadows—his steady, hinting at future tree vibes; hers tiny, curled up, lashes casting soft shadows. The usual lightning-eyed killer? Replaced by vulnerable sleep vibes. Adorable.
---
Meanwhile, in the quiet-ass town near Mist, the hot-spring inn's deepest tea room is cozy central. Paper doors block the cold, lanterns glow amber, premium sandalwood mixing with sulfur steam—instant chill.
Yakushi Nono, aka "Walking Shrine Maiden" and Root's secret weapon, is in full big-sis/mom mode. She clocks that Honglian—this clingy, Makoto-obsessed kid—is a territorial puppy guarding her favorite toy. Straight talk? Backfire city.
Nono eyes the white-knuckled fists and the mangled tri-color dango. No words yet—just gently pries those fingers open, rescues the sad snack, sets it aside. Then wraps Honglian's cold, stiff hands in her warm ones and guides her to the cushy tea mat.
Honglian's face is pout central, deep-blue eyes downcast, lashes like curtains hiding a storm of grumpy, hurt, don't-touch-me. Lips sealed tight.
Nono ignores the vibe, starts the tea ritual like a pro: boil, rinse, pour—zen AF. Steam fogs her glasses, adding mystery to the soft-mom aura. The glug-glug, clink, and fresh tea scent? Magic. Room's tension starts melting.
Slides a steaming cup of emerald tea to Honglian: "Sip. Warm up. Calm down. Night's cold—you waited a while, huh? We'll talk when you're ready."
No groveling, no guilt-trip. Just steady big-sis energy—years of orphanage momming + knowing her Root mission is a ticking guilt-bomb. Gotta keep this fragile little crew from imploding. Step one: defuse the jealous bomb.
Honglian ignores the tea like a stubborn cat. Nono doesn't push. Skips the clothes mix-up landmine and pivots to the one topic that'll crack her: Makoto.
"He go full training zombie? Forget time, sleep, food?"
Honglian's lashes twitch. Muffled: "Yeah… sometimes he's in the yard all day. Wake up at 3 AM? Still hear him."
Ouch—unspoken worry.
Nono nods, soft: "Talent doesn't carve that body."
"Even geniuses gotta grind harder than anyone. At his age? That kinda game-changing power comes from sweat, not gifts."
Flashback hits Nono: darkness swallowing her whole—then a thunderbolt rips the sky, yanks her from hell. That raw, terrifying power became her lifeline. Heart still flutters thinking about it.
Her words click. Honglian's walls crack.
Nono keeps going, voice like a hug: "Having you around—reminding him to eat, rest? Huge. That road's lonely as fuck. Your care? Probably keeps him human."
Honglian's eyes sparkle—like someone just told her her stick-figure art is a masterpiece. Never thought her little worries mattered.
She fidgets: "I… don't do much…"
"Just… make sure he doesn't kill himself training. And… he brought me candied hawthorn last trip."
Voice drops, cheeks pink, tiny smile: "It melted on the way—looked ugly… but tasted sweet."
Total 180 from the vinegar-spitting gremlin.
Then—guilt trip. Makoto's so good to me, and I can't even "help" with his… needs. And I'm jealous? Eyes flick to Nono's mature curves. A wild idea sparks.
Nono catches the micro-shift, smiles warmer, refills tea: "Cold exterior, quiet guy—yet he remembers you mid-mission with a gift. That's real. You're not just some sidekick. You're family."
"Family…" Honglian whispers, eyes lost then locked in. Something clicks.