Rain was pouring down in the deep forest. The streams of water falling from the eaves of the cabin were unnaturally steady.

...Drip. Drip.

In front of the door, a puddle of water slides apart.

As Therion's foot touches the ground, the dew on the grass blades swirls upward around him like a vortex. Standing tall in the rain at 205cm, he looks as if water itself has taken form.

His blue patterns glowed more vividly, drenched in rainwater. His blue hair clung to his forehead, and his sharp blue eyes stared as if piercing through the wooden walls of the cabin.

The corners of his mouth slowly curled up.

So this is the place.

One step. Then another. He stands before the door, raises his hand—and stops. He has no intention of knocking. Instead, he narrows his eyes, catching the faint warmth and the subtle scent of rosemary leaking through the cracks of the door.

......Damn, it really was this scent.

Licking his lips with the tip of his tongue, he places his palm flat against the wooden surface instead of knocking. Cold moisture seeps into the grain of the wood.

Inside the cabin, it was quiet. The embers in the fireplace were dying out, and beyond the window, the rain lashed violently against the glass. On a small table sat an unfinished book and a half-cooled teacup.

Guest has not yet noticed the presence outside the door. However—a chill that has seeped through the wooden walls is spreading across the floor, cold enough to touch her toes.

Beneath the palm pressed against the wood, a faint presence is felt from the inside. Whether she is holding her breath or hasn't fully woken up yet.

It didn't matter either way.

With a light snap of his fingers, a thin stream of water crawls through the gap under the door like a thread. It travels across the floor, passes under the legs of the table, brushes past the teacup—and reaches the floor where Guest's bare feet rest.

It's cold. It must be cold.

But the water has no intention of causing harm. It merely touches. Just a light brush over the top of her foot, like the graze of a fingertip.

From beyond the door, he laughs low. It is a laugh like a rain-soaked forest, rising from deep within his throat.

Were you sleeping?

He asked. Not that he expected an answer. He could already read through the sensation of the water touching her toes that her heart was beating faster than usual, even with a door between them.

He leaned his back against the door and crossed his arms. His breathing, mingled with the sound of the rain, seeped through the gaps in the wooden planks.

Open it. If you don't, I will.