Chapter Text
October 31, 1981
The cottage at Godric’s Hollow was still standing.
That was the first wrong thing.
Sirius Black slowed before the door, unease crawling up his spine. The front wall bore cracks and scorch lines, but it hadn’t been blasted open the way he’d expected—not after the kind of magic that should have torn a building apart. He pushed inside, and the air hit him at once: smoke gone stale, burned wood, and something colder beneath it, like ozone after lightning.
Magic hung everywhere—ragged, fraying at the edges, drifting through the rooms in invisible currents that made his skin prickle.
“This isn’t right,” he muttered, barely aware he’d spoken.
The silence pressed against his ears, heavy and suffocating. Not the gentle stillness of an empty home. This was the kind that followed catastrophe, when the world hadn’t yet decided how to move again.
“James?” His voice echoed too loudly. It cracked when he tried again. “Lily?”
Nothing answered.
He stepped farther in, boots crunching over splintered plaster. The sitting room looked as though a storm had passed through it—chairs overturned, shelves torn from the wall, picture frames shattered across the floor. A photograph of Lily laughing in the garden lay face-down near the hearth, its glass spider-webbed with fractures.
Sirius took two steps—and slipped.
He caught himself on the arm of the sofa and looked down.
Blood streaked the floor in dark, drying arcs.
His stomach lurched.
Behind him, Dumbledore entered the cottage with measured care, his long coat brushing the doorframe. His eyes did not linger on the wreckage in any ordinary way; they narrowed, un-focusing slightly, as though he were watching echoes replay themselves in the air. He lifted his wand an inch, then lowered it again, jaw tightening.
The magic here had been bent violently out of shape.
They followed the trail toward the stairs.
Lily lay halfway between the sitting room and the first step, one arm twisted beneath her, red hair spread across the floor like a spill of flame. Her wand had skittered from her grip and rested near her fingers.
Alive.
Sirius dropped beside her, relief and terror tangling in his chest. He hovered for a second before gently touching her shoulder.
“Lily,” he whispered, voice rough. “C’mon, Lily—wake up—please—”
She didn’t stir.
“She lives,” Dumbledore said behind him, voice soft but weighted. “But she has been struck down… by someone she trusted.”
Sirius froze.
He turned slowly.
James Potter sat against the far wall, knees drawn up, one arm wrapped around himself as though he were holding something in place. His glasses were crooked, one lens missing entirely; a thin cut marked his temple, dried blood dark against pale skin. His wand lay near his foot.
His eyes were open.
They weren’t unfocused.
They were fixed.
Locked on the corner of the room.
Sirius followed his gaze.
The crib stood exactly where it always had.
Perfectly upright.
Blankets neatly folded inside.
Empty.
No toy dragon hanging from the rail. No half-chewed rattle. No tiny sock dropped on the floor.
Just space.
The emptiness slammed into Sirius’s chest so hard he had to grab the back of a chair to stay upright.
“James,” he said hoarsely, crossing the room on unsteady legs. “Mate… where’s Harriet?”
James didn’t blink.
“I knew,” he whispered.
The sound barely carried.
Sirius crouched in front of him. “Knew what?”
James’s fingers twitched in his sleeve, curling as though they wanted to tear fabric.
“The moment he arrived,” he said. “I felt him. Like… like ice water poured straight into my skull.” He swallowed hard. “I could hear Lily. I could hear Harriet crying upstairs. And I was standing there, screaming inside my own head—and my arms still lifted my wand.”
His breath shuddered.
“She ran past me,” he went on, words spilling faster now, brittle with panic. “She screamed Harriet’s name. I tried to move. I swear I tried—”
His voice cracked completely.
“And I stunned her.”
Sirius flinched.
“No,” he said instinctively. “James, no, that’s—”
“I did,” James whispered. Tears slid down his cheeks unchecked, dripping onto his sleeve. “I stood there and watched him walk past me. I let him go upstairs.”
His shoulders shook once.
“I let him go to my baby.”
The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in.
Dumbledore moved closer and knelt, careful and deliberate, as though approaching a wounded animal.
“And Harriet?” he asked gently.
James lifted his head.
What stared back at them was devastation stripped bare.
“She was standing in the cot,” he said. “She always tried to pull herself up when she heard voices.” His mouth trembled. “She reached for me.”
His chest hitched.
“He raised his wand. There was light—so much light—and I thought the ceiling had come down. I thought the world had split in half.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“And then it was quiet.”
His voice dropped to nothing.
“No crying. No… nothing.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Dumbledore felt the echo of something terrible ripple through the magic around them—unfinished, unresolved, humming beneath his skin like a wound that refused to close.
He knew, then, that the truth would not help them.
He shut his eyes once.
“The curse rebounded,” he said. “Tom Riddle has fallen.”
James looked up sharply. “And my daughter?”
Dumbledore met his gaze.
“She perished with him.”
The sound James made was broken—half sob, half gasp. He folded forward, hands clutching at his jumper as though he couldn’t get enough air.
Behind them, Lily stirred.
She sucked in a sharp breath and jerked awake, eyes wild.
“Harriet,” she rasped instantly, trying to push herself upright. “James—where is she—where’s my baby—”
James crawled to her, grabbing at her robes, pressing his forehead into her stomach.
“She’s gone,” he sobbed. “Lily, I’m sorry—I couldn’t—I should’ve—”
Her gaze drifted past him.
To the shattered room.
The scorch marks climbing the walls.
The untouched crib.
Understanding crept over her face in slow, horrible pieces.
“No,” she whispered.
A thin, fractured sound escaped her throat.
“My Harriet.”
She stared at the empty corner as though expecting the world to correct itself.
“My baby is dead.”
James broke completely then, apologies tumbling out between sobs—how he hadn’t fought hard enough, how it had been his wand, how he should have died instead—
Lily shook her head weakly, tears streaking down her temples as she pulled him closer.
“No,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you say that! It wasn’t you! It wasn’t.”
Her voice failed, but she kept holding him, fingers gripping fabric like anchors.
Aurors arrived later, moving softly through the wreckage. Peter Pettigrew was named. Taken. Gone to Azkaban before the sun had fully risen.
Remus appeared sometime after dawn, grey with shock, standing beside Sirius while the two of them watched over what remained of their family.
Days blurred.
The Dark Mark faded.
The war ended.
The world began telling itself stories.
James heard none of them. He wandered the house like a ghost, flinching whenever his gaze caught on the stairs.
Sirius stayed.
Sometimes Lily lit candles in the nursery, setting them along the windowsill in a room that would never again echo with laughter.
Sometimes James stood in the doorway and swore he could feel a tug in his chest—like something had been taken, but not completely.
The world believed Harriet Potter had died a hero.
Dumbledore let it.
Because some lies are merciful.
And some simply wait.
YEAR 739
The mountain was quiet in the way only Mount Paozu ever was—wide blue sky stretched endlessly overhead, sunlight spilling through tall pine branches, cicadas buzzing in a steady, sleepy rhythm. The grass swayed lazily in the breeze, carrying the smell of earth and wildflowers.
Goku ran through the clearing with uneven, energetic strides, bare feet thudding softly against packed dirt. A fishing pole bounced over his shoulder, and a half-eaten rice ball bulged from his cheek as he chewed. He skidded to a stop near a cluster of rocks, eyes bright, scanning for anything that moved.
Then he heard it.
Not wind. Not a bird. Not one of the forest animals he knew so well.
A thin, trembling cry.
Goku froze mid-step, rice ball forgotten. His head tilted slowly, dark eyes narrowing in confusion as the sound drifted through the trees again—small, desperate, frightened.
“…Huh?”
He turned toward it, curiosity tugging him forward even as something tight curled in his chest. He pushed past tall grass that brushed his knees, ducked under low branches, and followed the sound into a shallow dip in the earth where sunlight pooled between rocks.
And there she was.
A tiny figure lay on the ground, half in the shadow of a tree. She was dressed in a soft blue dress, the fabric snagged and torn at one sleeve, dirt smudged across the hem. Dark curls clung to her tear-streaked face. A thin line of blood marked her forehead, and red scrapes dotted her small arms and knees.
She couldn’t have been much bigger than one of Grandpa Gohan’s rice sacks.
Her green eyes were wide—too wide for someone so little—and when she saw Goku standing there, her crying grew louder, sharper, tiny fists clenching as if the world itself had suddenly become dangerous.
Goku’s stomach flipped.
He stood perfectly still.
“…A baby?” he whispered, the word coming out soft and amazed, like he wasn’t sure it was real.
The baby wailed harder.
Goku flinched, hands shooting up the way Grandpa Gohan had taught him when approaching startled animals. His fingers spread awkwardly, elbows locked.
“I—I’m not scary,” he said quickly, though his voice wobbled a little. “I think. Grandpa says I’m not scary. I mean—uh—I won’t hurt you.”
She didn’t understand, but his tone made her sob, hitch for a breath. Goku took one cautious step closer, then another, careful like he was sneaking up on a wounded bird.
He crouched, knees bending slowly, grass rustling beneath him.”
“You fell,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the blood and scrapes. His brows pulled together in deep concentration. “That… that probably hurt.”
The baby sniffed, chest shaking.
Goku swallowed.
“Grandpa!” he suddenly yelled over his shoulder, panic bursting through his careful calm. “GRANDPA GOHAN! THERE’S A BABY OVER HERE!”
His voice echoed faintly through the trees.
He looked back at her quickly, worried she might vanish.
“I’m stayin’,” he promised in a rush. “I’m right here.”
The baby stared at him, hiccupping breaths fluttering in her chest. Her gaze locked onto his face, studying him with raw, wordless fear—and something else, too. Hope, maybe. Or simple instinct.
Goku didn’t know the word for it. He only knew it made his chest feel heavy.
Grandpa Gohan arrived moments later, staff in hand, sandals crunching over leaves. His eyes swept the clearing—and widened.
“…Good heavens.”
Goku scooted closer to the baby without thinking, body angling just slightly in front of her. “She was cryin’ real loud,” he said quickly. “I didn’t touch her yet. She’s hurt.”
Gohan knelt beside them, calm and practised despite the surprise etched into his face. He examined the scrapes, the torn sleeve, the faint blood at her brow.
“…She’s much younger than you, Goku,” he murmured. “Barely a toddler.”
“Yeah,” Goku said quietly. “She’s really tiny.”
Gohan slid his staff aside and reached out with careful, steady hands, lifting the baby into his arms. She startled at first—then stilled, tiny fingers curling into his robe as if she’d known him forever. Her cries softened into fragile whimpers.
Goku leaned forward on his toes, watching.
“She stopped,” he whispered, awed.
“That’s because she feels safe,” Gohan replied gently.
He glanced around the clearing. No footprints except Goku’s. No broken branches. No sign of how she’d gotten there at all.
“That’s… weird,” Goku muttered.
“Yes,” Gohan agreed softly. “It is.”
The baby shifted, blinking at the world through watery lashes. Then one small hand reached outward, searching blindly.
Her fingers caught fabric.
Goku froze.
She had grabbed his sleeve.
He looked down at her hand like it was something magical. “…She picked me.”
Gohan’s lips curved into a tender smile. “Seems she did.”
Goku didn’t pull away. Slowly—very carefully—he lifted one finger and let her grasp that instead. Her grip tightened, tiny and warm.
“She’s strong,” he decided.
Gohan chuckled. “For someone so little, yes.”
Goku stared at her face, at the way her breathing finally slowed, at the dirt streaked on her cheeks. Something unfamiliar settled in his chest—heavy and serious and protective all at once.
“…We can’t leave her here,” he said.
Gohan nodded. “No. We certainly can’t.”
The old man adjusted his hold, cradling her more securely. “Until we learn where she came from… she’ll stay with us.”
Goku’s eyes brightened just a little. “Really?”
“Really.”
The baby blinked up at them again, then yawned, mouth opening wide in a tiny, exhausted stretch.
Gohan smiled down at her. “We’ll call you Yuki,” he said gently. “A new beginning. Like fresh snow.”
Goku repeated it under his breath. “Yuki.”
She tightened her grip on his finger.
Goku grinned, slow and bright and full of wonder—never letting go.
They carried her home wrapped in Grandpa Gohan’s robe, the heavy cloth gathered carefully around her small body. It smelled of woodsmoke and dried herbs, of mountain wind and old pine beams—scents that had soaked into the fabric over decades. Yuki stirred once against his chest, making a soft, tired sound, then settled again, cheek pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder.
The door slid open with its familiar scrape.
Inside, the house greeted them with quiet creaks and shadows—low wooden beams darkened by years of cooking fires, shelves lined with jars of rice and dried mushrooms, a kettle still warm on the hearth. Evening light filtered through the paper windows in pale gold strips across the floorboards.
Something felt different.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… fuller.
Goku hovered close to Gohan’s side, pacing in short, restless steps, hands opening and closing at his sides. His eyes never left the baby’s face—her round cheeks smudged faintly with dirt, the curl of dark hair at her temples, the way her chest rose and fell in tiny, steady breaths.
“…Can I hold her?” he asked, voice softer than usual, like he was afraid the room itself might shatter if he spoke too loudly.
Gohan smiled and bent his knees, easing Yuki into Goku’s arms.
Goku stiffened at first, eyes wide. Then instinct kicked in. He shifted his stance, one arm sliding beneath her legs, the other bracing her back just like he’d seen Grandpa do with sacks of grain and injured animals. His shoulders relaxed when she didn’t cry.
She blinked up at him.
“…Hi,” he whispered.
Yuki made a tiny noise and squirmed.
The robe loosened a little.
Goku glanced down.
He frowned.
Carefully—very carefully—he reached out and poked the front of the bundle with two fingers.
Pat.
Pat.
“…Grandpa?”
“Yes, Goku?”
“She’s… different.”
Gohan knelt in front of him, setting his staff against the wall. “Different how?”
Goku looked back at Yuki, then at himself, brow furrowing so deeply it nearly vanished into his hairline.
“…I don’t think she’s the same kind as me.”
Gohan’s lips twitched. “That’s because she isn’t.”
Goku’s eyes widened. “Did something fall off?”
“No.”
“Did it… not grow yet?”
“No.”
Goku stared at the ceiling for a long moment, thinking as hard as he possibly could.
“…Is she broken...”
Gohan reached out and gently adjusted the robe around Yuki. “She is not broken.”
Goku looked unconvinced. “Then why is she shaped like that?”
Gohan met the question without hesitation, calm and warm. “Because she’s a girl.”
Goku blinked.
“…Okay.”
They both waited.
“…What’s a girl?”
Gohan chuckled. “Some people are born one way, and some another. You’re a boy. Yuki is a girl.”
Goku tilted his head. “…That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He looked down at her again, studying her with fierce concentration.
“…So boys look like me.”
“Yes.”
“And girls look like her.”
“Yes.”
Goku nodded slowly, satisfied.
“…Huh.”
Yuki yawned, mouth opening in a tiny O, then curled closer to his chest.
Goku froze.
“She’s… warm,” he whispered, like it was a revelation.
Gohan smiled. “She’s tired.”
He rose and moved toward a low chest near the wall, sliding it open to reveal neatly folded clothes—Goku’s old tunics, soft cotton shirts, and trousers patched at the knees.
“Her dress is torn,” Gohan added. “We should clean her up.”
Reluctantly, Goku let him take her back, though his hands lingered for a second longer than necessary.
Gohan laid Yuki down on a futon near the hearth and worked with steady, practised motions, loosening the robe and carefully slipping the torn blue fabric from her small frame. The fire crackled softly nearby, throwing warm orange light across the wooden floor and the low ceiling beams. He dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wrung it out, and gently wiped away the dried blood from her forehead.
His hands slowed.
Beneath the grime and crusted red, a mark remained.
It wasn’t a simple scrape.
A thin, jagged line cut across her skin in the sharp shape of lightning—fresh, angry-red, the edges swollen as if the wound had only just closed. It looked less like an accident and more like something deliberate. As though someone had carved it there.
Gohan’s brows drew together.
“…That’s not from falling,” he murmured.
Goku, crouched close enough that his knees brushed the edge of the futon, leaned forward until his nose nearly hovered over her face. His eyes widened.
“Whoa,” he breathed. “It looks like a zigzag.”
Gohan dabbed around the mark rather than on it, careful not to make her flinch. Yuki blinked up at him, unbothered, small fingers curling and uncurling in the air.
“It’s very new,” Gohan said quietly. “Still swollen.”
“Does it hurt?” Goku asked, voice dropping.
Gohan touched her temple gently, testing for fever. “It might be tender. But she’s being very brave.”
Goku’s mouth tightened. He didn’t like that word—tender. He shifted closer without realising it, one hand resting on the futon beside her head, ready to do… something. He wasn’t sure what.
“She didn’t cry,” he muttered. “Even when you wiped it.”
Yuki turned her head slightly toward his voice, green eyes locking onto his face.
Goku blinked. “…Oh.”
Gohan noticed the look. “She knows who’s here.”
Goku studied the mark again, slower this time, jaw set in a way that looked strange on someone so young.
“…Someone hurt her,” he said.
Gohan didn’t answer right away.
He smoothed a hand over Yuki’s hair instead, careful to avoid the wound.
“Yes,” he said at last.
Night settled gently over Mount Paozu, draping the little house in silver moonlight and long, soft shadows. Crickets sang outside the paper windows, and the fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting a warm orange pulse across the walls. The air smelled faintly of rice and smoke and clean water from the wash basin.
They had laid out extra bedding on the floor—two futons pushed close together. Gohan lay on one side, staff propped neatly against the wall. Goku lay on the other, stiff on his back, staring up at the ceiling beams as they might suddenly fall.
Yuki slept between them.
Or… tried to.
She was bundled in Goku’s too-large shirt, sleeves rolled nearly to her elbows, the fabric swallowing her small shoulders. At first, she’d drifted off quickly, lashes fluttering, tiny chest rising in slow, steady breaths.
Then she stirred.
A soft whimper slipped from her throat.
Goku turned his head instantly.
Her legs kicked weakly beneath the blanket, one hand curling into the fabric at her chest. Her face tightened, brows knitting together as if something in her dreams had twisted sharp and frightening.
“…Hey,” Goku whispered, unsure if he was allowed to wake her.
She murmured something in a language he didn’t know.
Then louder—
“Ma… da…”
Her head rolled from side to side.
Gohan opened one eye.
Yuki’s breath hitched, and she jerked awake with a small, panicked gasp. Her eyes flew open, glossy in the dim light, scanning the room wildly. She pushed up on shaky arms, looking left. Right. Toward the door.
Toward the shadows.
“Pa’foo,” she whimpered.
Goku propped himself on one elbow.
She turned again.
“Mo’oy..?”
The words were soft and broken, barely more than sounds, but the ache behind them was unmistakable.
Goku swallowed.
He didn’t move at first. He just watched her—how her tiny fingers clenched the blanket, how her shoulders trembled like she expected something to grab her out of the dark.
Gohan reached out slowly, laying a warm, steady hand against her back.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”
She didn’t understand.
She twisted away, searching again, lips wobbling.
Goku scooted closer without thinking, closing the space between them until his knee brushed the edge of her blanket.
“…Uh,” he started, then stopped.
Talking to babies was hard.
He leaned down instead, bringing his face closer to hers.
“Grandpa’s here,” he said softly. “And… and me.”
Yuki’s eyes flicked to him. She stared. Then she lunged forward and grabbed his shirt.
Goku froze.
“…Oh.”
Her grip was surprisingly strong.
She pressed her forehead—careful of the fresh scar—against his chest, breath coming in little, uneven puffs.
Gohan watched quietly, something gentle and thoughtful in his eyes.
Goku lowered himself onto his side so he was closer to her height, one arm hovering uncertainly before settling around her back the way he’d seen Grandpa hold her earlier.
There was a long pause.
“…You can sleep,” he told her, solemn. “Nothing’s gonna get you.”
Yuki sniffed.
“…Pa’foo..?”
Goku blinked. “I’m… not that.”
Gohan’s mouth twitched.
“But I’m here,” Goku added quickly, like that might still count for something.
Her grip loosened just a little.
She sagged against him, eyelids drooping again even though her gaze kept darting around the room, checking the corners, the door, the shadows near the ceiling beams.
Gohan adjusted the blanket, tucking it around her shoulders.
“She’s looking for someone,” he murmured.
Goku nodded.
“…Yeah.”
Yuki shifted again, restless, fingers brushing Goku’s wrist like she needed to make sure he was still there.
He didn’t pull away.
He stayed very still.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees.
Inside, between the soft crackle of embers and the slow rhythm of breathing, the little girl finally drifted back into uneasy sleep—clinging to the boy who had found her in the grass, and the old man who had carried her home.
Morning arrived gently at Mount Paozu, sunlight slipping through the paper windows in pale gold stripes that crept across the floorboards and up the walls. The house stirred with familiar sounds—the kettle beginning to steam, Gohan moving quietly about the hearth, the soft thud of Goku rolling out of bed and landing on his feet.
Yuki woke with a sharp inhale. She sat up at once, eyes wide, hands clutching the blanket to her chest as she looked around the room like it might vanish if she blinked.
Different ceiling. Different walls.
Not where she’d fallen asleep.
Goku froze halfway through tying his belt.
Gohan noticed at once and crouched nearby with slow, careful movements, holding a small bowl of warm water and a cloth. “Good morning,” he said softly.
Yuki didn’t respond. Her gaze slid past him, toward the trees beyond the threshold, and she shuffled backwards until the futon edge pressed against her heels.
Goku scratched his cheek. “…Uh. Hi.”
She glanced at him. Then away again.
Gohan set the bowl down and stepped back a little, giving her space. “No rush,” he murmured. “You’re all right.”
Yuki’s lower lip wobbled.
Goku stood there, thinking very hard.
He spotted a wooden spoon near the hearth, picked it up, and balanced it on his nose. It wobbled.
Dropped.
Clack.
Goku blinked. “Huh.”
Yuki stared despite herself.
He tried again—this time on his head. It slid off and smacked his foot.
“…Ow.”
Her mouth twitched before she could stop it.
Gohan hid his smile behind the kettle.
By breakfast, Yuki had edged closer without realising it, sitting just near enough to watch Goku shovel rice into his mouth while Gohan scolded him gently.
“Chew,” Gohan said.
“I am chewin’,” Goku protested.
Yuki blinked at him.
Goku froze mid-bite, swallowed slowly, and nodded. “…See.”
She let out a tiny sound—half breath, half laugh—and immediately glanced around the room, as though checking whether someone else had heard her.
When they stepped outside, the world burst open into green and wind and birdsong. The river shimmered in the distance, its rushing echoing through the valley.
Yuki halted at the doorway.
Goku waited.
Gohan offered a finger.
She took it, small hand curling tightly around his knuckle, and stepped onto the grass. It brushed her ankles. She stared down at it suspiciously, then crouched and poked it.
“…Cold.”
Goku grinned. “River’s colder.”
She followed slowly, still glancing over her shoulder now and then, scanning the trees as though expecting familiar faces to step out from behind them. Every laugh or sudden birdcall made her stiffen for a heartbeat—until she noticed Goku hadn’t reacted at all.
That seemed to matter.
At the riverbank, she gasped softly at the water flashing in the sun.
“Whoa,” Goku said, proud even though he had nothing to do with it.
When he splashed his face, his tail flicked behind him.
Yuki stared.
Squinted.
Crawled closer.
Grabbed it.
Goku yelped. “HEY—!”
The noise startled her so badly she stuffed the fuzzy thing into her mouth.
Goku shrieked louder. “DON’T EAT THAT!”
Gohan nearly dropped his fishing pole laughing.
Goku spun in a frantic half-circle, tail trapped between her hands and gums. “It’s not food! It’s me! Grandpa—make her stop!”
Yuki blinked, confused, then bit down experimentally.
“…NOT LIKE THAT!”
Gohan hurried over, still chuckling as he gently freed the tail. “Easy. It’s part of him.”
Yuki stared at it.
Then at Goku.
Then reached again.
Goku hugged it to his chest. “No. No. No.”
She tilted her head. “…Fluff.”
Goku hesitated. “…It is kinda fluffy.”
Later, she watched him hunt, eyes wide as he bounded across stones and speared a fish midair. She clapped when he landed.
Goku froze.
“…Did you see that?”
She nodded solemnly.
Gohan cleaned the catch while Goku tried to demonstrate again and nearly slid into the water.
By afternoon, she sat on a blanket near the fire pit, tracking every movement while smoke curled upward, carrying the smell of cooking fish. She kept looking toward the path through the trees, lips parting as though she might call for someone.
No one came.
She toddled over and poked Goku’s knee.
He looked down. “…Yeah?”
She leaned against him.
He stiffened. Then stayed exactly where he was.
By nightfall, she followed him without realising it, tiny steps echoing his path across the yard. When she tripped, he caught her without even thinking.
She stared up at him.
Then smiled—just a little.
His ears went pink.
Gohan watched from the porch, staff in hand, eyes soft.
As the sun dipped behind the peaks and fireflies blinked awake in the grass, dinner was laid out inside. Yuki sat between them, clutching her cup with both hands, peeking over the rim while Goku kept glancing at her between mouthfuls.
She was still there.
Goku sat very still, tail tucked around his waist, one arm resting close enough that she could reach him if she wanted.
Which she did.
Her fingers slipped into his sleeve.
He froze.
She sipped from her cup like nothing unusual was happening at all.
Gohan smiled into his bowl.
And Goku—after one long breath—stayed exactly where he was.
Later, after the dishes were washed and the lantern dimmed to a soft glow, futons were unrolled across the floor. Crickets sang through the open window, their rhythm steady and comforting, and the embers in the hearth pulsed low and red.
Yuki lingered near her bedding, sitting upright while Gohan settled on one side of the room. Her gaze kept drifting toward the door, toward the shadows stretched long across the beams.
Goku noticed and shifted closer. Just a little.
“…You can sleep,” he muttered, staring very hard at the ceiling instead of at her.
Yuki hesitated. Then scooted toward him in tiny movements, inch by inch, until her knees bumped his side.
She paused. Waited. Then tipped sideways and curled against him, light as a leaf settling on water.
Goku inhaled sharply. Did not move.
His tail twitched once. Then, without him meaning to, it slid loose from around his waist and curved around her calves in a soft, careless loop.
Yuki sighed. The sound was so small it almost wasn’t there. Her body slackened, head tucked against his arm.
Goku blinked at the ceiling.
“…Huh.”
He lay awake for a long time, listening to her breathing slow, feeling the faint warmth through his sleeve and the gentle pressure of her legs against his tail.
When sleep finally caught him, it came quietly.
Morning crept in on pale light and birdsong.
Goku stretched—and stopped.
He looked down.
She was fast asleep, one hand curled into his shirt, curls messy against his shoulder.
His tail was still wrapped around Yuki’s legs, looser now, like it had decided she belonged there overnight.
And didn’t move at all.
