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To Shippō, his feelings for Sōten were a mystery.
Once, he hated her for the role her brothers played in his father’s death, for her love of them despite their treachery and offenses against the people he cared for. But he hated even more, seeing how their memory made her small and so fragile when she was bolder than the sky itself, the personification of lighting and thunder. Quelled to silence by her father’s order - his claim that he had no sons - that Sōten would be his heir and lead what was left of her clan when the time came. He hated seeing the girl he quarreled with, laughed with, and pined after, grow farther and farther from his reach with every passing day.
Sometimes, he found himself wondering if he was a higher-ranked kitsune - trickier, wilier, older - that he could convince her to fall for him. Spirit her away with promises of affection, trinkets, and all the books she could pour over until her heart was content. Promises that would never be empty, like the more malicious of his kin, but filled with an unspoken affinity he had for her.
An affinity he tried not to think of when she was slumbering by his side, holding onto his sleeve in one of the rare moments her guard dropped enough that she would actually rest. A moment where panic washed over him, flushed his cheeks as red as her eyes, and set his heart racing. Then, he thought how she would look at him if she saw him staring at her when she woke up. Looking up to the trees instead to hide his embarrassment, fearing her sharp words, and suddenly flustered by the thought of her gaze.
But the feeling persisted. He wanted to be better now, wanted to be better for her, and in that moment - he realized - maybe his feelings weren’t a mystery at all.