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Rin stood in the center of Sesshomaru’s spotless kitchen, a single wooden spoon held aloft like a sword.
“I’ve decided,” she said, with all the conviction of someone who had absolutely no plan. “I want to be a chef.”
Sesshomaru didn’t look up from his newspaper. “No.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
He turned a page.
She dropped the spoon dramatically into the sink. “You’re always telling me to be serious about my future. This is me being serious!”
“The last time you were serious,” he said, folding the paper, “you spent two weeks convinced you were going to be a beekeeper.”
“I still might!”
“No.”
She ignored him entirely. “I’ve already started following like, three cooking accounts. And I signed up for a workshop. And I’m going to start sourcing fresh ingredients. Local. Organic. Seasonal.” She said the last word like a spell.
Sesshomaru closed his eyes.
“I need you to take me to the farmers market tomorrow.”
“No.”
She smiled sweetly. “Please?”
“No.”
“You’re already up at dawn, your car has the good trunk space. And you have that face that scares vendors into giving discounts.”
Sesshomaru stared at her.
“Okay, that last part was a stretch,” she admitted. “This is basically the supermarket, just with sunshine and violin music.”
He said nothing.
Rin grinned wider. “P-l-e-a-s-e.”
Still nothing.
She leaned in. “I’ll make your breakfast.”
Sesshomaru sighed, slow and inevitable, like a storm giving up.
“Fine.”
The farmers market greeted them with the full force of sensory overload.
Children with balloons. Old couples arguing about zucchini. A guy in a mushroom costume handing out flyers about soil pH. The air smelled like cut flowers and sweat and sixteen different varieties of baked goods.
Sesshomaru’s face remained impassive as he followed Rin into the chaos.
She flitted from stall to stall like a hummingbird, demanding to know the origin story of every onion and quizzing vendors about gluten. He stood behind her, towering and silent, arms crossed, utterly untouchable.
And then he saw her.
A woman in a pale pink sundress setting out small jars of golden honey beside bundles of wildflowers. She was laughing with a child, crouched down to put a daisy in the girl's hat. The booth behind her was an organized mess, chalkboard signs, petals scattered across wood crates, the faint scent of beeswax candles and dried lavender in the air.
She straightened, turned toward him like she felt his gaze, and smiled.
Bright. Unfiltered. Like she’d been waiting just to offer it to him.
Sesshomaru blinked.
His grip tightened around the canvas shopping bag in his hand.
Rin, several stalls ahead, looked back and caught his expression.
Her eyes narrowed. Slowly, her lips curved into the evilest grin.
“Oh my god,” she mouthed silently across the tomatoes. “You’re into the honey flower girl.”
Sesshomaru turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Rin trotted after him, cackling.
"You totally are!"
Saturday mornings started with a checklist and ended in chaos.
Kagome tucked her braid over her shoulder and adjusted the crooked chalkboard sign leaning against her flower buckets.
'Buy flowers or cry later' was scrawled underneath in pink chalk, courtesy of Sango from the Coffee booth.
She didn’t change it.
The booth smelled like lavender, sugar, and spring dust. She’d spent the past hour reorganizing her jars, row after row of golden sunlight caught in glass, each one labeled with a flavor and a flower, orange blossom, clover, blackberry, rose. Some people cared. Most just liked the sparkle.
Kagome loved all of it. The mess. The bees. The sun warmed wooden tables. The way kids stared wide eyed at petals. How old men asked for 'just a sniff' of chamomile before shuffling off like they’d been transported.
This market wasn’t about profit, it was about moments.
And the occasional flirt with the strawberry guy.
She had just finished placing a flower in a girls hat when something shifted in the air.
Not a breeze. Not a sound.
A presence.
Kagome looked up, and there he was.
Tall. Impossibly tall. Pale like he’d been carved from moonlight and never seen a full hour of sleep in his life. Long silver hair, piercing amber eyes, and the kind of resting face that could curdle milk.
He stood beside a much younger girl, pretty, sharp eyed.
But he wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at Kagome.
Their eyes met. Even across three booths and a forest of kale, something tightened in her chest.
Kagome smiled on instinct. Open.
He blinked.
No expression. No reaction. He looked like he’d just been personally offended by the existence of honey.
She turned quickly, flustered for a reason she couldn’t name, and knocked over her sample tray. Three tiny jars wobbled. She caught one. The others hit the ground.
Behind her, the tall man moved away, his silver hair catching the light. The younger girl caught up to him, clearly saying something that made him speed up.
Kagome bent to pick up the broken jar pieces and whispered to no one in particular.
“Cool. Yeah. Great. Let’s humiliate ourselves in front of the literal statue.”
By the time noon rolled around, she’d convinced herself it didn’t matter. There were plenty of other customers. One even tipped her extra for including a tiny thistle in his bouquet and called her a “wildflower genius.”
But still, that stare…
It hadn’t been cruel. Or disinterested.
It was something else. Still. Quiet.
Like he’d noticed her and hadn’t decided yet if it was a good thing.
So what if one mysterious, brooding guy didn’t smile back?
She was fine. Totally fine.
Until the next Saturday morning.
Because when she looked up from restocking her samples, he was there again.
Same scowl. Same silence. Same magnetic nothing.
Except this time… He approached her booth.
Without a word, he picked up a jar labeled “Blackberry Honey – for boldness”, glanced at her, and raised one brow.
Kagome handed him a mini spoon, trying not to tremble.
“It’s sweet, with a little bite,” she said. “Like me.”
He didn’t respond.
He tasted it.
Then, barely, just once, he nodded. And walked away.
Kagome stared after him, heart hammering, fingers sticky with honey.
The younger girl, same one from before, passed by the booth a minute later and whispered with a mischievous smile.
“He’ll be back. He always circles for the ones he likes.”
Kagome blinked.
Wait… she was talking about the honey...
"Right."
It had become a ritual.
Saturday morning. Arrive early. Pretend to browse the root vegetables. Walk past the honey and flower booth at least once before approaching.
Kagome always greeted him the same way. A smile. A quiet offering. Her voice, light and unbothered, even when his responses were nonexistent.
He didn’t need to speak. She understood silence. That was rare.
Today’s honey was wild rose. She’d written it on the label with tiny doodles in the corners.
He accepted it like it meant something. Because it did.
He was just turning away when he heard it.
“Hey, sunshine.”
Not Kagome.
Another voice. Too bright. Too familiar.
“You forgot your strawberries last week.”
Sesshomaru turned slightly, slow and precise, like a predator adjusting for wind.
Strawberry Guy.
Broad shoulders. Blue flannel. Dimples like betrayal.
He stood behind Kagome’s booth, holding a wooden crate of strawberries and grinning like a man who thought he had a chance. His hand brushed hers as he set the crate down, and Kagome laughed, laughed, like it was normal.
“Thanks, Hojo,” she said, brushing her braid behind her ear.
Hojo. Of course his name was Hojo.
“I threw in some extras. You looked tired last weekend. Thought you could use a boost.” He winked.
He. Winked.
Sesshomaru felt it. A shift inside. Small. Sudden.
Rin appeared at his elbow. When had she arrived?
“You’re vibrating,” she said casually.
“I am not.”
“You look like you’re about to melt his bones with your brain.”
Sesshomaru’s jaw flexed.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Are you jealous?”
He turned his head slowly. “Leave.”
“Should I?” she sang. “Because I could very easily ‘accidentally’ spill a jar of elderberry jam on his flirty face. Just say the word.”
He said nothing.
But when Kagome laughed again, light and golden, her face tilted toward Hojo like it belonged there, Sesshomaru moved.
Not quickly. Not publicly.
Just… forward.
He stepped beside Kagome’s booth and placed a jar on her table, not one filled to the brim. The jar he’d taken last week. Empty.
Kagome blinked. “Oh, did you want a refill?”
Sesshomaru met her eyes. Held them.
Then, very quietly, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded napkin. Inside: a single pressed violet. Dried. Preserved.
From weeks ago. A flower she had tucked into his hand without a word.
He set it beside the jar. Clean. Intentional.
Kagome stared. Her cheeks flushed a little, lips parted in a way that had nothing to do with strawberries.
Sesshomaru turned and walked away without another word.
Behind her, Hojo let out a light chuckle.
“Its so nice when people recycle.”
Rin had waited exactly one hour after the strawberry incident.
She’d given Sesshomaru time to do his usual dramatic brooding routine, walk the perimeter of the market like a silent storm cloud, glare at fruit, threaten root vegetables with his silence. She even let him buy those overpriced radishes he didn’t need.
But now?
Now it was time.
She caught him near the car, arms full of produce and judgment, looking like he was about to escape.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, stepping directly into his path.
Sesshomaru raised a brow. Threateningly.
She was immune.
“What was that back there?”
He didn’t answer.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Still nothing.
“The violet, Sesshomaru. You brought her a pressed violet like you’re a brooding war poet from 1890.”
“…It was a flower.”
“It was a gesture.” She flailed dramatically. “You placed it beside her honey like an offering to a goddess, and then walked off like you just dropped the hottest confession of the decade.”
He remained still. Which was how she knew she’d hit the mark.
“Do you even know what violets mean?” she demanded.
Silence.
“Faithfulness, you emotionally stunted romantic disaster.”
Sesshomaru blinked.
“You might as well have tattooed her name on your ribcage.”
He shifted slightly, just enough to adjust the grocery bag in his arms.
“And don’t think I didn’t see the way you looked at Flirty Fruit Boy, what’s his name? Strawberry Jam?”
“…Hojo.”
“Right. Hojo. You looked like you were calculating how many bones he actually needed to walk upright.”
Sesshomaru gave the slightest hint of a frown.
Rin crossed her arms. “So. Are you going to do anything about it, or just keep silently offering her jars of metaphorical longing until someone else proposes?”
Sesshomaru stared past her, somewhere over her head. Classic avoidance.
She lowered her voice. “You know she kept the flower, right?”
That caught him.
Just a flicker, a pause in his breath, the shift in his jawline, but it was enough. She grinned like a fox who’d just found the hen house door open.
Rin leaned in, smug. “You’re in so deep, you don’t even need a shovel."
"Already buried in honey jars.”
The honey stand was empty.
No pink dress. No braid. No laughing chaos. No wildflower signs threatening bodily harm to flower thieves.
Just a folded table. A single overturned bucket. A chalkboard resting on its side, wiped clean.
Sesshomaru stared at the space.
It hadn’t rained this time. There was no wind. No excuse for absence.
She was just… gone.
Rin glanced up from a basil stand and immediately caught his expression.
“Uh oh,” she muttered, abandoning her produce and appearing at his elbow. “Where is she?”
He didn’t answer.
A nearby vendor, a man with a stained apron and a suspiciously cheerful mustache, leaned over from his mushroom tent.
“Looking for the honey girl?” he asked with a knowing grin.
Sesshomaru’s silence must have read as confirmation.
The man nodded. “Said she had a wedding to go to. In the mountains. Left yesterday. Should be back next weekend.”
Wedding.
The word echoed in Sesshomaru’s mind like a rock tossed into still water.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just turned and walked away.
They finished the market trip in silence.
Rin didn’t make a single snide comment. She didn’t have to. The entire mood hanging around him was loud enough, tighter than usual, colder, like his edges had hardened. He barely glanced at the produce. He didn’t even insult the kale.
He didn’t stop at the honeyless booth again, but his feet almost did. Just for a second.
Just enough to admit to himself.
He missed her.
More than the taste of her honey.
More than her flowers.
More than the quiet glances that passed between them like secret letters.
He missed her.
And the idea that she might be with someone else… That the wedding she attended might not be someone else's celebration but her own…
It twisted something low and terrible in his chest.
He went home.
He stared at the jars on his windowsill.
Then he opened the drawer.
"Hm."
The mountain air was cool and sharp with pine, the sky stretched so blue it felt like a blessing. Bells chimed from the trees, strung with ribbon, caught by the wind and laughter.
Sango looked radiant, hair pinned with white flowrs, armor traded for silk, eyes brimming with something fierce and soft all at once.
Inuyasha stood beside her, tugging at the collar of his tailored jacket like it might bite. He didn’t stop fidgeting until Sango reached for his hand at the altar. Then everything stilled. Like the world paused to let them have this moment in perfect silence.
Kagome stood to the left, bouquet trembling just slightly in her grip.
She smiled for them. Meant it. But the emotion sat thick behind her ribs, blooming and tight.
It wasn’t envy.
Not exactly.
It was something older. Deeper. A kind of ache for something unnamed.
The ceremony ended in cheers and flower petals. Kagome was pulled into a dozen hugs. She laughed with the others, toasted to the newlyweds, danced with a ring of flower girls who refused to let go of her skirt.
“You looked very wistful up there.”
Kagome turned to find Miroku standing beside her, two champagne flutes in one hand, his best man boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d already gotten into trouble and had no plans to stop.
He handed her a drink and gestured toward the couple on the dance floor.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were picturing your own wedding.”
She snorted. “Miroku.”
He took a sip, unabashed. “I’m just saying. I’m single. You’re single. I’ve got the suit. You’ve got the hair for a dramatic veil moment. Shall we elope? I promise to fake my own death for dramatic flair.”
Kagome barked a laugh. “And give up this perfect tragic pining arc I’ve got going on? Please. I’m milking it for character development.”
Miroku raised a brow. “So there is someone.”
She didn’t answer right away.
Just looked toward the edge of the clearing, where the trees swayed and bees moved lazily through the wildflowers.
She could almost see him there, tall, still, unreadable, watching like he always did. Like she was something rare and fragile. Something sacred.
“I don’t know what it is yet,” she said quietly. “But it’s…something.”
Miroku, surprisingly, didn’t press. He just clinked his glass against hers.
“To the ones who wait,” he said, not teasing now.
Kagome smiled, soft and a little sad.
“To the ones who don’t even realize we’re waiting for them.”
She arrived late.
By the time she pulled into the lot behind the farmers market, most vendors were already halfway through setup.
Kagome hustled toward her stall, tucking windblown strands of hair into her braid and balancing three boxes of jars and bouquet wraps in her arms.
But when she turned the corner, she stopped cold.
Someone had been here.
The table was clean. Wiped down.
And sitting on it, centered perfectly between her usual stacks of honey and flowers, was something new.
A shelf. Handmade. Cedar, by the smell of it, dark and rich, the wood curved with quiet care. It wasn’t overly ornate, but the craftsmanship was undeniable. The top tier had gentle floral engravings, clover, lavender, and a single violet carved dead center.
There were slots for her sample jars. A section for bundles of flowers. Tiny hand cut ridges so she could slide in her hand written tags.
It was perfect.
It was… hers.
But there was no note. No signature. Not even a hint of who might’ve left it.
Kagome set her boxes down slowly, eyes scanning the aisle. A few vendors waved. One called, “Morning, honey girl!” but no one looked suspiciously generous or shelf like.
Her fingers skimmed the wood. Smooth, sanded, still faintly warm from wherever it had been made. The violet detail tugged at something in her chest.
She stepped back and just stared at it.
No one had ever done something like this for her.
Not quietly. Not beautifully. Not without asking for anything in return.
She was still standing there, half set up, half stunned, when the air shifted again.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him.
Walking the path between stalls like he always did, unhurried, unsmiling, a force wrapped in restraint.
He was looking straight ahead.
Until he reached her booth.
Then, just for a second, his gaze flicked toward the shelf.
And then toward her.
Kagome’s heart thudded once, hard, like it had been dropped.
She opened her mouth, but the words tangled. So instead, she reached for the jar she’d made the night before, just in case. The one with the label she’d written her number on.
She held it out to him.
"Thank you."