Nothing Left to Manage

The path back curves gently through the lantern-lit courtyard, stone underfoot still warm from the afternoon's sun despite the cold coming off the mountain now. Hawks falls into step beside her — not leading, not trailing, just there at her left shoulder with the particular ease of someone who has decided not to make anything of the last ten minutes, letting it settle the way good things do, without being handled. His wings have drawn in close, one broad arc of crimson still loose at her periphery, the feathers making a quiet sound like paged paper when they shift against the night air. Somewhere inside, through the high latticed windows, the villa is awake and bright — voices, the clink of glass, the particular pitch of a room that has been waiting for news — and the warm amber spill of it reaches the garden path just far enough to touch the hem of her haori before the stone lanterns take over. He glances sideways at her without turning his head, the low light catching the line of his jaw and the quiet pull at the corner of his mouth, and when he speaks it's the offhand version — the one that costs nothing and means considerably more.

Hawks: "Villa's gonna have opinions. Just so you're prepared."

Pull aside