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The mixer had been a bust from the moment she walked in.
Shura Kirigakure had known it the second she saw the crowd: a sea of nervous, overeager people in their late twenties and thirties, all clutching their drinks like they were holy relics.
The air in the izakaya was thick with the smell of fried grease, stale beer, and the desperation of single people in their late twenties. She swirled the melting ice in her lemon sour, resting her chin in her palm.
She’d spent the first half-hour doing what she always did at these things—leaning back in her chair, nursing a drink that never seemed to go down, and pretending she wasn’t cataloguing every single man in the room with the clinical eye of someone who had been on this ridiculous “husband-hunting” journey far too long.
Shura wasn’t picky. Not really. She just…knew what she wanted. Someone strong, someone with a good heart, someone who could keep up with her both on and off the battlefield. Someone who didn’t flinch at the word “demon” and didn’t treat her like a walking pair of tits.
Apparently, that was too much to ask.
She tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling tiles, and let out a sigh that tasted like resignation. Around her, the buzz of conversation rose and fell, punctuated by nervous laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.
She was considering faking an emergency summon from the Vatican just to escape, when she heard a voice.
"Kirigakure-san?"
Shura blinked, looking at the young woman beside her. It was Yuna, a fresh-faced Middle Second Class exorcist who Shura had vaguely taken under her wing earlier.
Maybe forty minutes ago, Shura had taken pity on her and struck up a conversation, if only to alleviate her own boredom. Yuna had been starry-eyed about everything—the Order, the missions, the fact that she was at a mixer with “real, high-ranking exorcists.” It would’ve been cute if it hadn’t made Shura feel about a hundred years old.
"What's up, kid?" Shura slurred slightly, resting her chin on her palm. "Ready to bail? I know a ramen place that stays open 'til four."
"No, not yet," Yuna whispered, her cheeks dusting pink. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice even lower. "Don't you know Okumura-kun? I know you work closely with the Cram School." Her voice pitched into that breathless, reverent register that made Shura's eye twitch. "Maybe you could, you know, introduce us?"
"Okumura?" Shura frowned. "Yeah, I know two of 'em. Which one—"
She followed Yuna’s gaze.
Standing at the bar, casually leaning against the mahogany with a highball in hand, was Yukio. But not the Yukio she was used to.
He wasn't wearing that stifling, stiff Exorcist trench coat. He wasn't wearing the tactical gear. He was wearing a dark, fitted button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, and—God help her—the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was laughing at something the bartender said, a genuine, relaxed sound that made his shoulders shake slightly. Shura had never once seen him laugh like that at headquarters. His glasses caught the low amber light of the bar, and she realized, distantly, that she'd spent years reading those glasses as a shorthand for paperwork and lectures. Under bar lighting, with his collar open and no coat to hide behind, they just made him look like someone with very sharp eyes who had decided, tonight, not to use them on you.
Shura snapped her gaze back to Yuna.
She lasted about three seconds before looking again. He'd set the glass down and was resting one hand in his pocket, phone in the other, thumb idling over the screen like he had nowhere better to be. The back-bar lighting carved his silhouette clean.
Huh?
"He’s... he’s a bit young for you, isn't he?" Shura deflected, though the excuse felt flimsy on her tongue.
"He's twenty," Yuna continued, eyes sparkling. "And he's already the exorcism subsection manager. Plus... look at him. He's gorgeous."
Shura squinted at the four-eyes.
He shifted his weight, crossing his legs at the ankles. The movement pulled the fabric of his slacks tight against his thigh. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, a rare gesture, and she caught a glimpse of his bare hands — no gloves, no cuffs, just his hands — and felt an irrational sense of intrusion, like she'd walked in on something private.
When did he get hot all of a sudden?
For the next week, Shura’s life became a hell of her own making.
It was like someone had messed with the contrast settings on her eyes. Everywhere she looked, Yukio was there, offending her with his sudden attractiveness.
She sat on the edge of her desk in the cram school staff room, pretending to read a Jump Square magazine while actually peering over the top of it.
Yukio was grading papers. That was all he was doing, technically. But the end of his red pen was caught between his teeth, the plastic cap pressing lightly against his lower lip while one finger kept the stack of papers neat against the desk. His brow was furrowed in concentration, creating a little crease between his eyes that she had a sudden, infuriating urge to smooth away with her thumb. Then he rolled his neck, slow and absent-minded, and the tendons in his throat shifted under his pale skin. The movement tugged the collar of his shirt a fraction lower, exposing just enough of his neck to make Shura hyperaware of how warm he probably felt under all that composed, infuriating calm.
Stop it, she told herself. He’s a kid. He’s your student, technically. He’s...
He stood up to file a report, and Shura’s eyes traitorously dropped to his waist, then lower. He had grown. When did he get so tall? When did his shoulders get that broad?
She remembered him as a scrawny thing, knees knocking together, crying because he was afraid of bugs.
The ugly four-eyes had somehow grown into a sexy man.
"Shura-san?" Yukio turned, catching her staring. "Do you need something?"
Had his voice always been that deep, or was the acoustics in the room just better lately?
"No!" she barked, hopping off the desk too quickly. She crumpled the magazine. "Just... checking for demons. In your hair. You're clear. Bye~."
She fled the room before she could say something stupid.
She was going crazy. She was looking at Okumura Yukio, the buzzkill in human form, and thinking about Sabrina Carpenter lyrics. It was humiliating.
The mission was supposed to be routine.
A mid level demon, nothing special, terrorizing a quiet suburb by possessing cars and making them drive themselves into lampposts. Annoying, sure, but hardly a threat to seasoned exorcists like Shura and Yukio.
They’d taken a small team—two younger exorcists for backup, both eager to prove themselves. The plan had been simple: lure the demon out, trap it, exorcise it, go home.
Of course, demons had a way of making simple plans complicated.
The thing had been bigger than anticipated, a grotesque amalgamation of twisted metal and rubber, eyes glowing an eerie green from the center of its warped chassis. It had roared, a sound like screeching brakes, and hurled itself at them with surprising speed.
Shura had been in the middle of chanting, her sword already drawn when the demon grabbed a parked car with one of its many appendages and ripped it from the ground like it weighed nothing.
She saw it in slow motion—the car spinning end over end, a deadly chunk of steel and glass hurtling straight toward her.
She didn’t have time to move. The chant was finished. All she could do was throw her arms up and hope her barrier would hold.
Something slammed into her, hard, knocking the breath from her lungs. The world tilted, then righted, and suddenly she was on the ground, the smell of burning rubber and ozone filling her nose.
Above her, Yukio grunted, arms braced and shaking as he held the twisted remains of the car to the side, one knee planted on the pavement beside her hip. His face was inches from hers, contorted with effort, sweat beading at his temples.
“Shura-san!” one of the younger exorcists shouted from somewhere to her left. “Are you okay?”
She could barely hear them over the pounding of her own heart.
Oh no.
A dusty training ground behind the dorms. A much younger Yukio, all knobby knees and too-big glasses, panting as he struggled to hold a gun steady. Shura, leaning against a wall, smirking as she barked instructions.
“Again, four-eyes. You’re never gonna hit anything if you keep closing your eyes every time you fire.”
“I’m not closing my eyes!” he’d protested, cheeks flushed with exertion and embarrassment. “And stop calling me that!”
She’d laughed, flicked ash from her cigarette, and ruffled his hair until he swatted her hand away. She’d thought, then, that he was cute in a dorky, earnest way. That he’d grow up to be a nerdy, overworked exorcist who would probably die buried under a pile of mission reports.
She’d never, in a million years, pictured this.
Present-day Yukio gritted his teeth, muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching as he pushed the mangled car to the side. It crashed to the pavement with a deafening clang, sending up a cloud of dust.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, breathless, his voice rough. He didn’t move off her, his body a solid weight between her and the chaos around them.
“I’m fine,” she managed, though her voice came out a little shaky. Her heart was still racing, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the near-death experience or the way his chest was pressed against hers, the heat of him seeping through her jacket.
He searched her face for a moment, blue eyes sharp, then nodded and pushed himself up, offering her a hand.
She took it, his grip strong and calloused, and let him haul her to her feet. Her knees wobbled, and she told herself it was from the adrenaline.
“Watch it,” she said, forcing a grin. “If you keep saving me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like me.”
He rolled his eyes, the familiar gesture grounding her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the exertion.
Later, when they were back at headquarters, filing their reports, Shura found herself replaying the moment over and over.
The way he’d moved without hesitation. The way his body had shielded hers. The way his face had hovered over hers, close enough that she could see the faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
She sat at her desk, pen poised over the form, and stared at the blank page.
Surely she would remember if he had that kind of face.
It wasn't fair. The universe was playing a prank on her.
Yukio was the son of the two most attractive people she had ever met. He had Shiro’s capability and Yuri’s delicate features, mashed together and aged like fine wine. It was a genetic inevitability. He couldn't have turned out to be anything but insanely hot.
She had somehow forgotten how DNA worked.
It was annoying.
It was—
"Hey Shura, didya see that?"
Shura blinked, snapping back to reality. She was sitting on the rooftop of the old dormitory, a popsicle melting in her hand.
In front of her, Rin was grinning, Kurikara resting on his shoulder.
"I saw it, I saw it," Shura lied, waving her popsicle stick lazily. "You... hit the thing with the fire. Good job."
"You weren't watching at all!" Rin complained, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
She opened her mouth to retort, then promptly forgot what she was going to say.
Rin’s t-shirt was plastered to his chest with sweat, the thin fabric clinging to the defined muscles of his torso. He’d filled out, too, somewhere along the line, all that training turning him from a lanky teenager into a solid wall of muscle.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, blue flames flickering faintly at his fingertips, and grinned at her again.
Her brain short-circuited.
Okay, she thought, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the exhaust vent. So it’s not just Yukio. It’s the whole bloodline. It’s the damn Satan genes.
She opened one eye, watching Rin chug a bottle of water like a dog, half of it spilling down his chest. Water droplets flew everywhere. His chest heaved with exertion, sweat glistening on his abs, tracking down the V-line into his pants.
Or, maybe, it was the fact that she hadn't had a date in six months.
"I need a drink," Shura muttered to herself, standing up and tossing the stick into the trashcan. "And I really, really need to get laid."